


Watch the Tide Come In

by blackjacq (Annabeelee)



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Drama, Drinking, Eventual Romance, Family Drama, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possibly Unrequited Love, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabeelee/pseuds/blackjacq
Summary: There's a lot to learn about the tourist trap that is Styx Beach; that it's a dry town, that it's made up of quiet religious retirees, that its beholden to the only hotel generating any kind of tourism and it's stubborn owner, but there's one thing Hermes starts to learn after a month into his extended 'vacation'.He kind of likes that boat guy.
Relationships: Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 267
Kudos: 317





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The vaguely 70’s small town beach AU no one fucking asked for but I’ve come to deliver like some kind of nega-Fedex worker. There is no return policy. It's vaguely 70's because I'm not going for a prelapsarian sense of nostalgia but I want the low tech, lack of inter-connectivity and mega-corporations, and the aesthetic. I will not be making any effort on lingo so if that bothers you, now is the time to dip. Unbeta’d.

The first thing Hermes learned about Styx Beach is that the boat guy is a goddamn asshole. 

Wait, no, scratch that.

The first thing he learned, after reading a pamphlet on the plane over here, was that Styx Beach was a small town on a tiny inlet on the eastern coast of the United States, that it had been prohibiting the sale of any alcohol since 1893, and was a semi-popular tourist attraction for rich Christian families and the college kids of rich Christian families who refused to pay for their adult children to spend their spring and summer breaks getting drunk off their asses. Which come to think of it, might be why his father sent him here instead of the dozens of other properties owned by their family but-

That's not important right now. 

So the second thing Hermes learned was...that uncle Hades is as much of a prick as his father always told him. He'll admit it; he'd been holding out hope on that one but even picking up Hermes from the airport was too much of a hassle for his busy schedule, and he left his poor nephew to take the squeaky rust-bucket of a bus for thirty minutes to the seaside hotel. And then Hermes had to walk from the bus station across town to the hotel for an additional twenty minutes with his luggage.

In the middle of a rainy February morning.

When Hermes arrived at the rather ostentatious, out of place, (considering the colonial aesthetic of the rest of the town's buildings) hotel, soaking wet, jet lagged, ticked off but smiling over it like he always did, his uncle rolled his eyes, actually rolled his eyes and said-

“Finally.” Hermes had only smiled wider as a twitch began under his eye.

“Finally, yes." And he made a point of ringing out the ends of his shirt on the floor that was desperately in need of re-carpeting, much to the clear ire of his refrigerator of an uncle. "Would’ve taken less time if someone had given me a ride but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.” Hades glowered down at him, before turning away from his- _his_ cold and drenched nephew. 

“I’ll show you to your room.” Hermes made a face, but followed, nodding to the front desk girl who'd been watching with the mild interest of someone who's been staring at the weather all day.

He gets it. He really does. Hades probably hadn't wanted him here, seeing how he and Zeus hadn't talk in around five years, but to be honest, this hadn't really been Hermes choice either. He wasn't going back to college, he didn't know what to do with his life anymore, and so 'extended getaway trip to the most middle of nowhere, inoffensive beach until he finds himself so father can have his favorite guest bedroom back' was the solution they settled on.

So anyways, second thing Hermes learned was that dad was right and uncle Hades is kind of a prick. Third thing was the boat-

No, hang on. The third thing wasn’t that. He’s getting a head of himself.

The room Hades took him to was lackluster, on the bottom floor with a bed, a chair in the corner, tacky carpet, a bathroom that had seen better days, and a Bible on the bedside table. Hermes put the Bible in the drawer, fiddled with the radio alarm, found that it's broken, and then sat in the chair for a second just looking between the rattling heater, the rain slowing to a sprinkle outside, and the stain on the opposite wall. 

The light fixture above him flickers for almost a minute and Hermes puts his head in his hands.

This was going to be his life for the next however many months until he feels ready to go home. He can’t tell if he regrets it or not yet. At least the view will be nice when it stops raining. At least Hera wasn't glaring at him to stop moping around her kitchen. 

When he went looking for Hades after he changed into something dry, a middle-aged woman, dressed up like she was at a formal event for a charity dinner and not in the foyer of a three star beach hotel that’s seen better days, was at the front desk, harshly reprimanding the girl behind said desk in the softest monotone Hermes had ever been glad was not directed his way. The poor girl was on the verge of tears as the woman listed out her grievances in an even and unquestioning manner. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The desk girl simpered, cowering in most professional of manners as the woman's perfect nail polish glinted from the stuttering lights above. “But the air units can’t be fixed until the parts come in, but every time Mr. Hades goes to the shop, he says they don’t have them yet and-”

“Did he, perhaps, ask after them today?” The woman stared like a hawk, unblinking, challenging. The desk girl balked, knowing that whatever she said next may have horrible consequences and Hermes wondered if he should come back later when the fancy lady was off scolding someone else. 

Preferably away from the front door.

“Oh, well, I don’t think so? He didn’t say…” 

The woman must have noticed Hermes awkwardly shuffling away, as the stern tilt to her brow softened in surprise and she faces him fully. The desk girl visibly liquefied, extremely happy that the woman's attention is directed somewhere else. Hermes, for his part, was pinned to the spot, and had wanted nothing more to bolt, but if this lady was who he thought she might be, he'd have to suck it up.

“Good afternoon,” She gave him a small bow of the head and despite the fact that there were boots tracks on the worn carpet and there was a crack on the wall by the front desk right to her left, her entire immaculate ensemble had Hermes feeling five degrees out of place. There was some niggling in the back of his head that he should have been apologizing for something. “You must be Hades’ nephew.”

He was immediately sweating. Hermes has met more important people, businessmen, coaches, athletes, politicians, ambassadors, than he count on his fingers, his toes, and the next thirty peoples digits, not that they’d let him, and never had he wanted to shrink down into the scratchy fibers of the flooring and become the fleck of dust he felt like as he did in that moment. 

“Yeah, yes, that’s-” Oh god, what was he supposed to do? Shake her hand? She seems above it, but Hermes brain in that exact instant was scrambling to remember etiquette let alone his own name as he raised his arm and held his hand out. “Hermes.”

She regarded his hand, her crow’s feet wrinkling just the tiniest amount as his own smile faltered and Hermes let his arm flop lamely to his side. Right, yeah, worst decision he made that day, if not ever. Glad to see she was absolute going to think he’s an idiot for the rest of forever. 

It was only inevitable after she introduced herself as Nyx, the original owner of the hotel and the attached private beach and the only woman he’s ever heard his father talk about with any notion of fear, that he would agree to go down to the shop and looks for Hades' package for her after that. Anything to get the hell out of the hotel and away from that judging _knowing_ look she kept giving him. Plus, a quick walk down the road and back might give him time to figure out how to fix that absolute banger of a first introduction.

So, yeah, third thing he learned about Styx Beach is that Nyx scares the hell out of him.

* * *

‘Down the road’ isn’t a lie as the convenience store Nyx describes is maybe three blocks away, past the well black topped parking lot of the hotel sharply contrasted by the gray sandy lane leading into the town proper. Located at the corner of a long string of knick-knack and specialty swimming/diving/fishing shops, almost all closed for the season, and across the street from a diner, the place is just in front of the docks in a two story brick building that looks like it’s seen at least seven hurricanes. 

And won. 

The bell above the door chimed as Hermes entered the cozy shop, eyes immediately getting lost to contrast between the chipped dry wooden floors and walls and the space between stuffed full of reasonably new metal shelves and coolers lined with product. It's rustic in the sense that it’s in need of a severe amount of varnish or even just new floors altogether. Hermes would even reason that the place is either going out of business or the owner has no sense for aesthetic, and considering the several wet shoe tracks of varying sizes leading around the place, it’s most likely the latter.

Immediately to his left as Hermes took it all in was a glass counter where a stout man with a hunch and a severely receding hairline sat, ignoring him for the magazine he’s apparently engrossed in. Hermes stood there for a moment, tapping his foot, but when the worker didn't even flinch, he approached.

“Uh, hi, I’m-”

“Look pal,” The man started, not looking up from the tabloid. Somewhere, a wall clock's second hand ticked a staccato beat. “If you ain’t even gunna look around before you come asking me for shit then we’re gunna have problems, dig?” Hermes blinked. And blinked again. And then a third and a tenth time.

“Sorry,” He shifted on his feet, the unique frustration of being halted in his tracks having dawned on him. He hates waiting. “I think you may have the wrong idea; I’m picking something up for Hades?” The guy rolled his eyes, which was a theme that day Hermes guesses, standing up from his stool and hobbling round the corner to a back room. 

He’s was back there for a good minute, shuffling around and Hermes could already feel the impatient exhaustion trying to drag him down every second that ticked by, punctuated by that damn clock. Outside, waves crashed against the dockside and in here, the constant hum of the freezer assaulted his ears, sparking the fire under that frustration he'd been ignoring all morning and now, afternoon.

“Not seeing nothing here for the big guy.” The worker said, coming back and Hermes could breath again. “Might wanna ask the bossman if he’s hiding it or something.” He took his place back on his stool, back to his rag, and back to ignoring Hermes. 

Hermes just stared after that, hopeful that more information would be forthcoming, but as the man flipped another page with all the passive aggression of someone who thought their time is being wasted, _which is ironic_ -

“And where might he-” A scoff interrupted his prodding and finally, finally, the guy actually looked at Hermes from behind his massive glasses, sniffing as he gave Hermes the once over. It was only to further his picture of annoyance, but it was progress. 

“Jesus pal, you new here or something?” He asked, titling his head and scratching the end of his unkempt moustache.

“I am, actually. Thank you for noticing.” Was Hermes' irritated rebuttal. The worker shrugged.

“I ain't here to keep tabs on every joe who walks through those doors, alright? He’s out on his boat probably. Out back.” He jerked his head to indicate the direction and went right back to flipping through the tabloid and Hermes might actually scream.

“And I’m supposed to know which who I’m looking for how?” The worker huffed in a laugh, shaking his head, grinning.

“Trust me, pal, you’ll know him when you see him.” 

Hermes left then, certain the man wouldn't answer anymore questions, back into the foggy, chilly afternoon. His feet splashed on the wet planks of the dock, muttering to himself and kicking any loose bits of rock or sand that happen to be in his way, getting an immense childish sense of satisfaction when he heard of the debris hitting the choppy waters below. Nearing the boats, he finally started searching, potentially fruitlessly, for anyone among the crowd of white, black, and tan seaworthy vessels who might... own a store. 

To the counter man’s credit, it is shockingly easy to tell who he’s looking for as there is one individual apparently dedicated or dumb enough to be out by his boat on a shitty afternoon in February like this and he is incredibly difficult to miss.

Leaning against a mid-size personal boat is a figure so exceptionally tall Hermes almost trips over himself thinking about it as he approaches. At the sound of his fumbling, the man lifts the ridiculous brim of his ridiculous hat, eyeing Hermes from behind small circular sunglasses as he comes to a halt before him, puffing out a plume of smoke from a half-spent cigarette perched between gnarled lips. Hermes tries not to stare, intrinsically understanding the need for the big hat, though it can only do so much when your nose and mouth look like it got hit with the bad end of a lawnmower.

“Uh,” Hermes helpfully started, glancing anywhere but the man’s face. If he had been sweating before, he was even worse off then as pallid arms the size of the pillars holding this dock up crossed over an equally broad black sweater-clad chest and the man waited for Hermes to get his mouth back in working order. “Sorry, just I, well, I’m looking f-for the shop owner. He’s supposed to have something for... Hades?” 

For a long indefinite pause, the boat man just stared at him and Hermes could do nothing but squirm there, the distinct impression that every facet of himself was being accounted and judged. Mercifully, the guy began to move, working his scarred throat to grunt and, with all the hurry of paint drying, he took a final drag off his cigarette before plucking it from his mouth with fingers adorned with more golden rings than a jewelry shop. He dropped it to the wooden planks, crushing it under the heel of his black boot, and blew the smoke in Hermes general direction before he turned without a word and got onto his boat. 

“Wait!” Hermes stepped after him, even as the man disappeared from view into the cabin. “Listen, I apologize for staring, that was rude, I'm acknowledging it, but if you could just point me in the direction of where I can get my uncle's package-”

The fact the Hermes dodged out of the way of the damp box being thrown at his head is a testament either to the boat guy’s depth perception or Hermes’ own capacity to move and he’s willing to bet money on the second. The box smacked into the dock with a jangling loud thunk, bounced once, twice, and landed on its side in a puddle with a final decisive splash. Hermes looked between it and the boat guy standing above him on his vessel, glaring down at Hermes with an amount of disdain he felt is entirely unjustified. 

Which he told him.

“That was entirely unjustified. You could’ve sent me to the hospital with that!” Hermes shouted as his shock was replaced with righteous anger even as the boat guy had already disappeared and the engine came to life, cutting through Hermes’ words and the relative silence of the foggy bay with a decisive roar. 

It didn’t matter how much Hermes yelled at him to come back and explain why he needed to try and give him a _concussion_ , the man sailed off without a word or even a second glance. Which is why, when Hermes returned to the hotel ten minutes later, arms sore from lugging the twenty pound package and in need of another dry shirt, Hermes slopped the box down onto the front desk with a squelch, gave the miffed front desk girl a ‘cheers’ with a tight smile, walked right past his uncle’s questions and Nyx’s faintly amused expression, and went right to his room for a nap.

So, yeah, fourth thing he learned about this place was that the boat guy was a goddamn asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a certain otherworldly calm to a small town at five in the morning before the sun has even begun to arise. In the city, there’s always someone walking around, purposeful or not. There’s always a store or a club or a restaurant with their lights on, waiting for anyone to come in. There’s always construction, malaise, talking, _noise_ , coming from somewhere, anywhere, to listen to, to distract. 

Here there is nothing as Hermes jogs along the empty cracked sidewalk and the scattered flickering streetlights. A few houses have lights on, but there’s no one outside, no one around, no cars on the road. No one to see him run, no one to see him stumble every few yards as his left knee locks for a nanosecond too long, no one to see the gritted teeth and or hear the frustrated grunt he makes every time. 

Just him and the breeze and the road and the sidewalks and, too foolhardy to stay on solid ground, the beach, bathed in the quiet of the early morning with only the lapping of waves and the crisp chill to join him. Except-

He’s halfway to the hotel property, long past the docks and the store, feet pounding on damp sand that clings to his trainers, threatening to topple him, when his leg locks up again, a final time and he down on his hands and knees before he can stop himself. Cold sand bites into his skin, the individual granules scraping as he tries to stand up, panting, but the sharp all-encompassing pain keeps him grounded. He stays there for a moment, eyes wide, breathing slowing to a resting level, fingers curling in the frigid sand as initial shock morphs into boundless frustration.

There's a yell building in his chest that he fights down. He’s not tired. He could go for miles, wants to go for miles, used to go for miles and miles. He’s dying to keep going, to get back to the way it used to be but this damned _cramping_... 

He sits down, the sand immediately soaking his ass and thighs with a cold that’ll take ages to warm up, and he gingerly touches his shin, pulling up his sweatpants to see. He traces the seam of a scar down from his knee to his calf, barely there anymore, only visible if you know where to look. He stretches his legs like the therapist taught, like he does every morning, and night, and sometimes a bit in between. 

Best surgeon money could buy and he still can’t run, nowhere near like he could. It's a thought he has a lot, a bitter pill that keeps coming up, sitting like bile the back of his head if things get too quiet. And too quiet things have been.

It takes time, like it always does, for the muscles and the tendons to relax, for him to get steady to his feet. He stays in that spot for a long time, rolling his ankle, stretching the muscle, pacing to make sure it won’t give out on him again. The sun is beginning to rise behind him, just peeking out over the town, but Hermes is too busy trying to focus on anything but his leg to care. 

It’s been almost two years. He shouldn’t keep thinking about it. Shouldn’t keep caring. That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? To stop caring?

Doing a great job of that, clearly. He kicks a loose rock across the sand into the water, regretting it instantly as his leg gives an awful twinge.

Hermes adjusts his sweatband, runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, and stares out into the endless expanse of water before him, sniffing from the salty cold infecting the back of his nose. There’s a sparkle to the water now, as the sun starts to hit it, and he watches the soft waves roll in, each fold shining pleasantly before they collapse over themselves and start anew. He can feel the sand drying on his palms, his legs, crunching in the hair there unpleasantly with every shift of his stance and he leans down to brush some of it off, making himself look presentable. 

People are starting to wake up now; he’s heard at least two cars on the road behind him and he’s going to have to walk back. Might as well at least try not to look like he got into it with the beach and lost. 

He starts to turns around, back toward the town, stomach grumbling and leg ache subsiding to a manageable level. There's a thought about getting some breakfast before returning to the hotel, but something on the horizon catches his eye before he even takes a step. He stops, frowning, squinting to focus a bit more. It’s a boat, that much is clear, only one out right now, wet sides shining with the beginning whisper of sunlight creeping over the building of the town, but if Hermes looks, really looks, he can just make out the shape of a-

No, it can't be. He expected an ambitious fisherman or the sea...cops, if that's a thing, but boat guy? What is he doing up at 6 in the morning?

* * *

The local diner opens at 6:30am, which is a good thing, because Hermes is starving by the time he quickly passes the convenience store to cross the street. The shop is still closed, not opening till eight, though there is a light on in the second story. Whether the cashier from a few days ago is doing some stocking, or if someone merely left a lamp on, Hermes does not know, and frankly doesn’t care to find out.

Or at least he tries not to care. Because, really he cares a lot. Too much. Why does he care so much? He gets one box thrown at him and Hermes can’t stop thinking about the why and the how and the _why-_

At least he's not thinking about the leg anymore.

There’s a wonderfully distracting waft of bacon and coffee and syrup that smacks Hermes in the face the moment he opens the door to the welcoming diner. It’s well-sized, well-lit, one half cordoned off with a rope and a sign stating ‘summer seating’ where beyond are several tables laden with their chairs. The rest is clean, homely, its checkered floor freshly mopped for the day’s patrons. 

Hermes is not the first one here; one elderly couple and a rather wide man occupying two of the four available booths, each quietly enjoying their preferred morning beverages and the poppy music softly playing from a radio on the long empty bar while someone can just barely be seen working away through the window to the kitchen. He takes it in, unsure if he should just pick a spot or wait for someone to greet him, trying not to stare at the other patrons who keep glancing at him. No signage stating any sort of directions, which seems odd, but it is early in the morning...

“Take a seat wherever you like!” A melodic voice calls out from the back. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Taking his cue, Hermes places himself on a red cushioned stool at the counter, immediately grabbing the plastic menu from between the sugar and the napkin dispenser. It’s contents are simple and cheap, as one would expect from such a place, punctuated by small, overly lit pictures of various dishes marked as POPULAR. He’s always wondered what kind of metric restaurants used to determine that, if they just keep tabs on how many dishes are ordered or if it’s just a ploy to get people to buy more profitable products. 

He could always ask. Maybe not here exactly. Pretty sure it’s just the former since it's a family owned business unless that’s a really shrewd businessman running the jo-

“Well isn’t this a surprise.” Hermes jolts as an empty glass is placed in front of him, fumbling with the menu, having completely forgotten what he was doing. “Not often I get a new face round this time of the year.” 

The woman standing before him has an aura of kindness that Hermes appreciates immensely. There's a warm expression on her heart-shaped face, one hand on her hip, the other holding a half full water pitcher as she regards Hermes with a genuine interest. The tag on the left side of her chest says ‘Eurydice’ and there’s a few old stains on her apron, but nothing about her seems purposefully sloppy; merely busily unkempt.

“What brings you to town, stranger?” Hermes is only now realizing, sitting on this stool, menu in hand, sand itching his legs, that in the three days he's been here, he hasn't talked to anyone outside of the hotel. He came here to stop being a sad hermit in his dad's house, and now he's just been a sad hermit in his uncle's hotel.

Does he remember how to have a conversation that isn't stilted and extremely uncomfortable?

“Just, uh..." Not even a little bit. "Visiting family..." Eurydice's pleasant expression falls just a touch, as does the toothpick she has wedged in the corner of her lips. Just enough that Hermes is certain she's figured out his self-proclaimed status of 'sad rich-boy vagabond'. 

"Don't sound to sure of yourself, there." She fills the glass she set down, ice clinking pleasantly as it falls into the plastic cup. "Hanging around a while, or just a short visit?"

"Oh, not too sure honestly." He sets the menu down. Picks it back up. Finds it is now kind of sweaty from how hard he's been gripping it. Sets it back down again. "Didn't buy a return ticket as it were. Haven't got much of a plan. Just sort of feeling things out right now." The toothpick gets moved to the other side of her mouth in a smooth motion as she hums in acknowledgement.

“Hopefully you stay long enough to get some nicer weather. Now what can I get you?” She takes his order without writing a thing and disappearing once again into the kitchen. Hermes slaps his forehead once with the menu, squeezing his eyes shut tightly before setting the menu back down for the last time back between the sugar and napkins.

With nothing to do but wait, he taps to the song on the radio, one hand drumming on the counter, the other stacking little coffee creamers into various configurations. The elderly couple are having a light conversation behind him in their booth, something about a daughter or the weather or a road trip, Hermes can’t tell. He didn’t hear the first part, but now that there’s little else to catch his attention, he finds himself listening in.

The old man catches him peeking at them, and Hermes gives him an awkward nod before hurriedly staring out the window. Bored of stacking creamers, and trying his best to ignore the hungry cramping in his stomach and the errant twinge in his leg, he stares outside, half invested in the tale of so-and-so and their mom taking a trip round the Everglades this summer and ‘oh sure hope they don’t get found by no alligators’, and half invested in the sparrows hopping around on the pavement, searching for loose scraps and squabbling with each other. The radio DJ comes on and the birds flit away, a car driving into view along the street, rusted to shit and sputtering more fumes than a coal plant. God only knows how the thing is still chugging along; screeching as it turns the corner and no muffler to dampen it's woeful moaning.

His eyes follow the car round the bend, past the diner, past the store across the street where Hermes finds himself stuck, distracted by a light in the rear of the dark shop flicking on. With the extra illumination, he can clearly see the massive figure that steadily walks into the store proper from the back room, setting a rather large crate on the front counter. The boat guy opens his cash register, licks his thumb, counts the cash within, closes it again with a nod, picks his crate back up with the greatest of ease, and leaves for the back room again. Seconds later, another light comes to life upstairs.

Hermes cranes his neck, trying to get a glimpse of what’s going on up there, but the curtains are firmly drawn. What could he have been carrying? Hermes frowns, brow furrowing as he thinks and thinks and thinks. Is that why he was out on his boat so early in the goddamn morning?

“What’s Charon up to today?” There has to be a petition out there to put a bell on Eurydice because that is the second time since meeting her approximately 20 minutes ago that she’s snuck up on him. 

Hermes whips around, the sense of panic at the sudden intrusion to his staring being overridden by cold guilt at being a creep, not having realized he had turned fully in his stool to better observe the perfectly normal day-to-day actions of a guy he’s met once. There’s a plate of steaming eggs and bacon and toast in front of him and Eurydice for her part seems only amused at his wide-eyed expression. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and shakes his head, already feeling his ears turning pink. 

“He has a name?” Eurydice is kind enough to not openly laugh, though her shoulders do quake from a small chuckle as she wipes her hands on her apron. He picks up a fork, shoveling eggs into his mouth to hide the creeping blush in his cheeks.

Yes, alright, Hermes should have reasonably guessed boat guy has a name other than the moniker Hermes has secretly given him but, you know... He just didn't think about it before.

"Yep, though you'll never hear it from him." She gets thumbs up from the wide man in the corner after her silent question if he needed anything before leaning on the counter to continue speaking to Hermes. “Looks like he left quite the impression on you.” 

“If by impression you mean ‘threw a box at my head’, then yes, he did leave me with one.” He says through a mouthful of bacon. Eurydice’s grin only widens, eyes sparkling in the clear mirth of someone who’s heard this story before and has never gotten tired of it.

“Did you stare at him a little too long? ” Hermes rolls the bite of food in his mouth, glancing away from her good-natured accusation with a shrug as his face heats up just a bit more. 

“I’d say a, uh, a normal amount.” The old man waves Eurydice over, but she gives him one last look, leaning in for just a moment. 

“That’s what they all say.” She whispers, patting his arm sympathetically before she excuses herself to go see what her other patrons need, kitten heels clacking on the linoleum.

Hermes, with his plate almost finished, chances another peek over his shoulder. Charon is outside now, leaning against the glass window of his shop by the front door, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, dull gray-blonde locks hung limply under his hat. The light of the new day shines off his overly polished rings as he scratches his scarred chin with a grimace. If Hermes dared, which he did, kind of, maybe, he could swear Charon was looking right at him behind those sunglasses. 

“Weird.” He mutters to himself, inhaling the last remnants of his breakfast and ignoring the creeping paranoia that he's being watched as he scrapes whatever egg yolk he can onto the final bit of his toast. The food was extremely good; filling and satisfying and if only he hadn’t been so distracted by the guy across the street, he might’ve enjoyed it more. 

So Charon gets that point against him now too, because Hermes’ feels like it and would rather blame someone it has no effect on than his own inability to not overthink things that mean nothing to him. 

He’s not even really mad about the box. Okay, he’s a little mad about the box, but that’s not as important as everything else, cause he’s had this idea, you see. It’s weird that this guy has more gold on his hands than his step-mom has in her jewelry cabinet and it's weird that he's got a fine-looking boat when all he has is a store in a tiny beach town. And it's weird that he's up at the crack of dawn on said nice boat with his golden rings getting mysterious crates from who knows where when no one's looking.

And maybe, just maybe, it's not that weird. Hermes just got here; he doesn't know anything. Man could just be getting more canned soup at five in the morning for all he knows.

Eurydice comes by one last time, bill set with the greatest of ease onto the bar as Hermes assures everything was great.

“Oh, and sorry about the sand everywhere." He indicates the spattering of beach he's brought with him. "Wasn’t thinking when I sat down…”

“Please." Eurydice waves it away. "I didn’t open this place on the ocean and expect my floors to be sand-free, hon. Besides, Sisyphus,” She nods to the broad man who is on his second plate of food and third cup of coffee, not that Hermes was counting. “Covers my tables in more car grease than I thought was in a car. Don’t worry about a bit of grit.” 

He leaves a few extra bucks on the table anyways, more wired than he was when he came in and uncomfortable from the sand still on his legs and in his running pants. He leaves as another old couple walk in, the chilly air greeting him as he steps onto the sidewalk, intent on a shower, a change of clothes, and to avoid Hades at all costs in case he’s got another errand or some pointless busywork for him. 

The boat guy, Charon, is still across the street, arms folded over his chest, staring down the road towards a line of innocuous houses. Hermes has to physically hold himself back from peeking around the corner of the diner to see what's over there, so instead he hurries along to the hotel, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending like he isn’t even the slightest bothered by the fact that the guy could be looking at him, right now. 

Because he isn’t. 

Maybe. 

Probably.

* * *

It’s not that Hermes is impulsive. 

No, okay, that’s a lie. It’s a defining feature at this point. He gets some errant thought in his head, and then, before even thinking about how if might not be a great idea to jump in your neighbor’s pool at 3 in the morning because your buddy pointed out it looks kind of like lime gelatin or weighing how mad your step-mom might get if you sneak a bird you bought on a whim into the garage to keep because it said ‘hello’ to you at the store, the police are reaming you while you’re sopping wet and there’s a loose budgie flying angrily around the kitchen. 

It’s never anything bad. He’s never been to jail or done anything overtly illegal (if you discount trespassing and shoplifting but that last one is a technicality if you think about it). He just has ideas and some of those ideas need to be followed up on.

Such as right now.

To be fair, the flat-paneled surface at the rear of Charon’s boat is pleasantly warm on his back where he lays stretched out like a fat cat, the sun having come out today and the temperature a breezy out-of-season 60F. It wasn’t exactly hard to get on here, and no one else was out to see him, so passing by the docks again after he ran a few letters to the post office because Hades caught him despite his best efforts… gave Hermes what is essentially a Very Bad Idea. An idea he actually hasn’t regretted yet since climbing onto the vessel and settling down, so he’s doing fine so far. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know exactly why he did this, why he clambered onto someone else’s- no, a complete stranger’s property, sat his ass down, and has been pretending to snooze for probably the last hour. Guy did throw a box at his head, which still seems less than justified. And even if Hermes isn't mad about it, he swears, he does want to shake the man a bit. Show him he's not as scary as he thinks he is. 

Sure, he's got an unfortunate face that would do well in a horror flick, and sure, he got arms like trees and is frankly as tall as one, and _sure,_ he could probably pick up Hermes and toss him all the way back across the Atlantic, but he weighed those factors, you see, for approximately ten seconds, which was a good enough assessment by his books. So onto that boat he went, just to show Charon what's what.

He's feeling perfectly confident in this.

Or at least he thought he was until the boat rocked as it’s owner stepped onto it. 

“You know,” Hermes clasps his hands over his stomach, hoping to portray the picture of indifferent contentment instead of the flighty nervous excitement tightening like a noose in his throat.“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were up to something.”

He cracks open an eyelid, wholly expecting it but still marginally surprised to see Charon in all his gaudy attire, ghoulish features, and looming glory staring down at the supine Hermes. His hands are hanging loosely by the thumbs in his pockets, the cigarette ever present in mouth just barely holding in there, and if Hermes were a brave man, he’d say Charon was amused by this stunt. He squints up at the boat guy’s face with a frown, praying to whoever that was a correct assessment.

“I’m willing to bet you get this all the time,” He pushes himself on his elbow, the other hand coming up to shade his view from the noon sun nearly blinding Hermes from behind Charon’s hat. “But you are exceptionally tall and it’s almost an inconvenience from this point of view.” 

The trail of smoke coming off of the fag lessens imperceptibly as a particularly audacious ripple sloshes again Charon’s boat. Charon says nothing, just stares and stares from behind his sunglasses and while Hermes tries to match that with as much determination as he can muster, there’s that creeping doubt clawing at his shoulders the longer he fights to maintain that gaze. When he looks down, just for a moment, Charon makes a thoughtful noise, turning and walking away from the intruder to fool with something in the cabin. 

Hermes lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, letting himself fall back onto his back and closing his eyes again. He probably shouldn’t have done this. Why did he? Just to bother the guy? Well, the guy’s here now and he’s pretty unbothered so mission unaccomplished.

He should probably go.

“Back on topic,” Hermes continues, daftly “I was thinking about, surprise to most, I know, even surprises me sometimes, but given that your day job seems to be somewhere between hanging out on this boat and selling canned goods and condoms to the 3,000 people in this town,” There’s boot steps coming towards him again, unhurried on the fiberglass as the shifting weight rocks the vessel with each point of contact, but Hermes can’t bothered to look, even as alarm sirens begin shouting in his head. “It just doesn’t add up how you have what appears to be Fort Knox’s worth of gold on your ha-”

The ocean, as it turns out, has not received the same love and care from the sun above as the varnished wood paneling on the back of Charon’s boat and when one is flipped unceremoniously into it by a very strong man with an oar, it takes the breath out of their lungs much in the same way as a cannonball to the chest would: 

Swiftly and forcibly.

Hermes breaks the water’s surface with a resounding gasp, frigid cold needling into every nerve-ending on his body and salt stinging his eyes as he splashes about like a wet dog in his horrendously weighted clothes. As he blinks sea water from his eyes and gets his bearings, he can just see the brim of that massive hat moving back to the boat’s cabin, accompanied by the head of a wooden oar. Between the sound his paddling, his own gasping, and the call of seagulls, Hermes could swear someone was laughing.

* * *

“What happened to you?” The bored front desk girl, a different one, asks Hermes as he gets back into the hotel, water squelching in his trainers on the twenty-years-out-of-date carpet. She takes in his still dripping clothes, the salt and sand in his hair, and the grin on his face with a pop of her gum. “You fall off a boat or something?”

“Actually,” He takes a moment to look himself over, at the ends of his shirt slapping his thighs with every shift of his stance, at his drenched pants desperately sloppily clinging to his legs, at the goosebumps on his arms from the chill. “Yes.” He says as if he's only now just realized it. “Yes I did.”

Her brow furrows, her incessant chomping slowing as she eyes him.

“You don’t look too put out by it.” Hermes makes a noise at that, pursing his lips in thought. 

No.

He really isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He get flip like pancake.


	3. Chapter 3

One thing Hermes did not expect when agreeing to an extended stay in Styx Beach was how isolated he would begin to feel. When he thought 'beach', he figured people, girls, noise, things to do with a carefree attitude. Even at the hotel, he expected travelers of all sorts, had all these romantic notions of chatting with people from all over, getting ideas for what do and where to go with his life. He forgot, of course, that it is February.

The truth of the matter is that there’s very few patrons at the hotel right now as one with some forethought would expect from the tail end of winter. Hermes is here, of course, but besides him are a rotating stock of business men, the women they brought along who are absolutely not their wives, and a few hippies taking advantage of out-of-season pricing. With such a small handful of people around, the hotel and its beach, are still, forlorn, a negative space that inspires only lethargy in its current clientele.

All this to say that the place is right boring, and Hermes has been trying his best to figure out how to not spend any time here. 

“Nephew.” If Hades doesn’t catch him, of course. 

His hand pauses on the door to the kitchen, bent on finding some food, then bugging the desk girl to see if any letters had come in for him, and then possibly, maybe, taking the bus to the city to wander around for a while. See a flick or something. Go to a bar and chat someone up. He doesn’t know. He probably won't even go.

“Yes, dear Uncle?” He faces Hades, finding him standing menacingly in the dining room, glare narrowed in on his layabout nephew. Somewhere close by, the front desk phone rings and the girl manning said desk answers with all the bravado of someone who is getting paid to be excessively nice on the phone and Hermes wishes he were there instead of here. “Having a good morning? Saw you up bright and early in your office, like I do every day, though I’m not sure what it is you do in there considering there haven’t been any check-ins for at least two d-”

“Hmph.” His uncle interrupts and Hermes would be more put out if it wasn’t how he’s come to know the man. “You’re almost as astute as you are capable of running your mouth. Here.” Hermes catches the ring of keys tossed at him with a thoughtless practiced ease, though he does have to stretch for it. “Since you’re not doing anything, take the hotel car to the mechanic. He's just down the highway, left of the gas station."

Hermes freezes at that, nearly dropping the key ring. His heart stops, stomach doing clenching painfully, a cold sweat creeping into his hairline. The girl at the desk hangs up her phone with an irritated click of her tongue and Hades starts to walk away, and Hermes is not _driving any car-_

“H-hang on a moment!” He cries out. Astoundingly, his uncle actually stops instead of just stomping off to hide in his office with the piles of paperwork that Hermes cannot for the life of him figure out what they're for. Must’ve had a great morning after all. “First off, I’m on a bit of a schedule, thanks for asking,” There’s another harumph at that, which is fair. It's not completely accurate. “And secondly, when did you get a hotel car because you didn't seem to have one last week when I needed to be picked up from both the airport and the bus stop?”

Hades snorts. 

“And what schedule are you on, exactly?” Hades waits in as overjoyed a fashion as his brick of a face can muster, arms crossed over his chest and eyes dancing with a malicious mirth as his nephew hesitates, licking his lips to think. 

Alright, it’s easier to have the faintest idea of a possibility of a plan than to actually commit, because once he’s committed, then he has to go through with it, and if he doesn’t and Hades sees him not in the city, then Hades will say irritating things like ‘oh, thought you had _plans_ ’ with that smug, judging look of his and Hermes will have to pretend to do something for the rest of the day just to avoid his uncle and his superiority complex-

“Going to the city, if you must know.” He answers finally, plainly, confidently, holding out the keys for Hades to take back. Behind him, in the kitchen, the ice machine rankles with a load of ice being dropped into its storage unit as a twitch begins under his uncle's left eye.

“The city bus doesn’t arrive for another-” Hades checks the glinting silver watch on his massive wrist. It is shocking how well that thing stays attached to the man’s meaty arm. “Forty-five minutes. I would hope you would have plenty of time to make the short drive and then some.”

Damnit.

“Strange how you don't seem particularly vexed by anything at the moment. What's keeping you from taking _your_ company car in for repairs?” Hermes counters. “I’m not your errand boy.” Hades placid expression pinches and Hermes knows he’s in it now as the broad man opens his mouth once more.

“Yes, I could take the car, and you can gallivant off to wherever you wish, then I could begin charging you for all of the food you're eating and all of my employee’s time you waste. You’re on a fixed pool of funds, and considering your appetite and penchant for getting excessively wet-”

“Now hang on one moment, two of those times were your fault and the th-” 

“I’m certain-” Can’t quite get a word in edgewise. “I could find any number of reasons to run out those funds, thereby sending you from my establishment and back to your father to begin your new career as, what was it again? _His_ errand boy?”

Hermes smiles, something tight and toothy. He can't really blame his father for not wanting to talk to Hades more often.

“This is because you don’t like the repair guy, isn’t it?” Hades tsks, turning toward the hall and walking away with a note of finality.

“I detest him greatly, but I also have many other things to fix around here in time for spring break, and you’ve nothing better to do with your time.” 

“Is there anyone in this town you happen to get along with, my dear uncle?” Hermes calls after him, grip tightening on the keys to the point of discomfort.

“No.” 

* * *

There’s one issue Hermes had forgotten to mention. Just a small one really. Nothing big. 

He can’t drive. 

Hermes drops the keys, his hand having been poised to insert them into the ignition for an indeterminate amount of time now. He lets his forehead hit the steering wheel as his empty palm comes down onto his thigh to curl into the fabric of his trousers. He hits his head a few times, lightly, just to get some sense into himself before leaning down in the leather seat to pick the keys back up off the immaculate, fraying car mat.

Well, no, that’s not right. 

He is not incapable, physically, of driving a car. He knows how to drive, used to drive a lot actually. Great stuff, driving a car, going places as fast as he likes, on his own time, but that was before. And this is now.

There's a frustrated exhale as he jingles the keys anxiously, leg bouncing erratically, and a cold dread creeping into his spine. Outside, the sky is cloudy and the air is grey and lifeless in the empty parking lot. He’s never been so thankful no one is here to see him sit like this, excessively pale as he gnaws on the inside of his lower lip. 

It shouldn’t be this hard still.

He puts his hand on the car door, fingers wrapping around the handle. He should get out of the vehicle. He should just tell Hades. He should just toss the keys on his desk, face the music, tell him to figure out another errand or just start charging him for every crumb he eats because he _can’t-_

Hermes turns the key in the ignition, the engine rolling over and the dials on the dashboard flipping to their designated readings. Shaking, he clicks the seatbelt into place after slipping a time or two, swallows back the knot in his throat, and takes in a few gulps of air. Shifts the gear into reverse, adjusts the rearview mirror, holds his breath.

That would require him telling anyone though.

* * *

The garage is half a mile down the highway from the western edge of town. It looks like it might’ve been a warehouse at some point; its massive metal exterior vaguely white with more rusty brown spots than a giraffe and the gigantic front doors perpetually open to the workshop inside. On the gravel parking lot are no less than two cars awaiting their tune up and at least 7 more scattered about that are either abandoned or 'project cars' that have most likely been sitting there since the late 50’s if the dead patches of dirt and grass are anything to go by.

“I don't mean to be rude, but are you alright there, sir?” 

It had taken Hermes an hour to get here. Which is noteworthy because it takes an hour to jog across town and down the highway to the repair shop and back. Twice. Hermes is certain several grandmothers have added him to their hit lists, were they to have one, and if they think a guy in his early twenties stopping every few feet for absolutely no reason warranted an imaginative assassination. 

Hermes had rocketed out of the company car the second he put it in park on the barren dirt in front of the garage, brown grass and gravel crunching under his feet as he paced. He’s shaking, sweating, nerves and muscles jittering with adrenaline as if he’d just ran for his life and only now has found himself in safety. There's an ache is his leg from how hard he's been tensing the muscles there, a veritable knot he'll have to work out later.

“What? Yes, absolutely fine. Couldn’t be better.” Hermes babbles to the concerned mechanic, the same man from the diner yesterday. He’s as broad as he is wide, an absolute train of a man in dirty overalls and covered in all sorts of grease. "Having the time of my life, me. Going around..." He gestures to the car now several yard away from him flaccidly, "Driving."

Sisyphus, as the patch on his shirt dubs him, glances between Hermes and the still open car door, brow squinching. 

“You sure?” Sisyphus rubs the back of his neck, concern naked and apparent in his shoulders and Hermes really wishes he wouldn’t. “Watched you roll in like the thing might burst into flames any second. Need a water or coffee or anything?”

“Nope, perfectly utterly fantastic,” Sisyphus’ eyebrows disappear completely under his blonde curls as Hermes gives him a vague thumb's up. “So I’m just leaving this with you then?” 

“Yes, I’ll give Mr. Hades a ring when she’s all fini-.” Hermes is already walking away, waving over his shoulder as he begins the long walk back

“Great!” 

* * *

It’s not a problem. It’s fine. Driving is just a thing you can do if you need to. That's why he flew here. Completely avoidable. He'll just settle down in a city somewhere with a robust public transportation or hire a driver or...

Or he can keep living off his father’s dime until the end of time, Hermes thinks bitterly, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets as he walks along the roadside. 

He’s nearing the gas station that signals the turn into Styx Beach, probably the busiest establishment in the town right now. It’s an old place, like everything around here, run by an equally old man with less teeth than sense but significantly more cats. A car turns off into it, and a couple exit, their argument carrying down the road as the woman stomps into the gas station and the man angrily starts pumping gas. Their exchange carries along the dead air, no vehicles on the highway to deafen them today.

Hermes picks up the pace, not exactly jogging, but too fast to call it a walk. He just needs to go, needs to get somewhere, wants to run.

Can’t run. Legs too wobbly, evidenced by how he nearly trips on a rock, too distracted to see it, hissing as he catches himself awkwardly.

Bus left a while ago, so a day trip is out. Not that he even wants to go anymore. Or did he even want to go in the first place? 

Damnit. Before, when his head was a mess, when there was no one to talk to but his own turbulent thought, he would drive around for hours, window rolled down, wind in his hair, nothing but him and the highway for ages. The simplicity of watching miles melt away, landscape passing by in a blur calming to the tenacity of his nerves and the hamster wheel in his mind.

But now-

He keeps walking, feet pointed somewhere and eyes to the ground as he passes house upon house of empty yards of brown grass and chain fences. A wind-worn lawn gnome waves merrily at him with only specks of faded black paint for eyes and if Hermes were more of a hooligan and a few years younger, he'd go out of his way to kick it over. Instead, he just keeps moving, casting about for anything to get his thoughts onto something other than himself. 

He just needs something to do.

* * *

So he steals the oar. 

No, that assessment implies he means to keep the unwieldy thing, and not, say, waltz right into Charon’s shop holding it proudly in one fist just to be a cheeky bastard with every intent on giving it back. Stealing really isn’t the right word for all of that. Hermes prefers to think he’s ‘temporarily moving it elsewhere’, which has a better implication and also not by any definition illegal. 

He thinks. He’s not quite sure. Athena would know, but she’s miles away and he’s not picking up a phone just to ring up his busy sister and ask about the legality of displacing an oar.

Not that she'd answer, at any rate. 

To be fair, it was not his initial intention when he ended up wandering aimlessly by the docks. He had half a mind to go rent a paddle boat, row out a few hundred yards, and just sit there in the middle of nothing until the waves brought him to either a shark or another continent; whichever came first. In fact, that had become the New Plan, until he noticed that on this cloudy mid-morning, Charon was not on his boat. Again. 

What a shame. 

Hermes had stood, eyes roving over the empty boats serenely rocking in the still air, the ocean adrift with its rolling waves. There was only one fisherman hanging around out on the horizon, and several gulls padding about with those mischievous eyes on the planks of the dock and the sides of the vessels resting there. Probably looking for scraps or things to steal, which Hermes was coming to relate to more and more recently.

Finding himself quite suddenly on Charon’s boat once again was not as surprising as he thought, given he’d just sort of let his legs carry him wherever for the past however long. The door to the cabin is unlocked as his hand turns the handle, opening silently on well-greased hinges. Hermes taps his foot, making a thinking noise with his lips as he peeks inside. 

Oar is just sitting there on the wall, held up by two hooks, nothing tying it down. Big wooden thing, isn’t it? Made of oak or something; Hermes doesn’t know wood. Could be plastic for all he knows. Probably heavy.

Hermes sighs, running a hand through the hair at the back of his head and shifting his feet. He should just leave. This is stupid, standing here. So what if the guy flipped him off his boat like an egg? Hermes did trespass, technically. What does this even accomplish, other than to stick it to the boat guy? Try and get another reaction out of him?

The man hasn’t even said one word to Hermes and here he is ten seconds away from being even more intrusive because why? Is he really that desperate for attention?

“You really ought to lock things up better.” Hermes announces shortly after entering Charon’s shop, oar in one hand. The man in question is doing a fantastic impression of a marble statue in the corner, the sleeves of his dark purple turtleneck bunched up over his crossed forearms, sunglasses on even inside as smoke from his ever-present cigarette curl over the brim of his even more ever present hat. He'd had to have watched the entire approach here; it's not exactly easy to be sneaky give the large windows.

“I’m just saying, good boatman,” Hermes continues, jovial despite his heartbeat thumping faster as Charon stares him down. “This wasn’t exactly difficult to obtain. Just hopped on the old boat there, quick as can be, and grabbed it, not a thing in the world to stop me.”

The shop falls still, Hermes bragging fading into the hum of the freezer and the ticking of the clock over Charon's hat. The handle of the oar clunks against the floor below as Hermes lets it slip audibly to take some of the weight off his arm and Charon is resolute in his statuesque posture for what feels like an age. The confidence with which is Hermes swaggered in here with is swiftly waning, regret seeping into every pore the longer the boat guy just stands there, unmoving, unruffled. 

He jumps at the gruff sound that comes out of Charon’s throat when he pushes himself off the wall, uncrossing his arms to let them fall to his sides as he begins the walk around the counter to Hermes. There’s no real sound in the shop to dampen the soles of his heavy boots on the chipped wooden floor, each step deafening, pointed, and Hermes would drop the thing and run if he were a smarter man. Unfortunately for everyone, he is not.

“I’m merely suggesting that you never know when all those back alley dealings you’re getting up to will catch up to you and it might be good to invest in a padlock or a...chain...”

His words dry up when Charon comes to a stop before him, overbearing, looming, the smell of tobacco and the salt of the sea pungent, burning the space he occupies. He’s close enough that Hermes would touch him if he breathed wrong, and there’s a small rattle to every exhale the man makes. Charon exudes heat, a furnace of a person as he looks down at the much shorter nuisance.

This close, Hermes has no option other than to study Charon's face, too stubborn to just give up the ghost, back up, and take his eyes off the man. It’s easy to see the scars on his mouth and neck are old, knotted burns, long since inflicted, long since healed, trailing well past the collar of his sweater and up into his cheek. It’s clear that he’s missing the tip of his nose, creating a lopsided point and an uneven curve to his nostrils, and there’s a droop to his right eye conveniently masqueraded by the sunglasses he wears.

It’s unavoidable, when this close, for Hermes to imagine how easy it would be for Charon to just pick him up if he so desired. How effortless would it be to grab Hermes by the front of the shirt, lift him from the ground, and toss him from the shop should Charon feel the need. He couldn’t even dream of putting up a fight, could be knocked on his ass faster than he could even blink.

Hermes forces a cheeky grin onto his very suddenly dry mouth, swallowing down the shock of electric heat that sparks sharp within his gut, holding the oar out to the boat guy. He lets go willingly when Charon takes it, letting out a relieved breath when the larger man finally moves away, stomping back to his preferred corner, leaning back against the wall, now accompanied by the wooden oar. He’s still watching Hermes, still not having said a damn thing. 

“I think you should at least consider it.” Hermes adds, already backing up to the exit.

Charon jerks his head toward the door with a sharp grunt, crossing his arms back over his chest. It's hard to read him, no real expression on his face and no words accompanying his motion, but Hermes gets the idea that his charitable mood is swiftly running out. The bell dings solemnly as his feet hit the sidewalk, the buzz of his thoughts no less busy, but all the more lighter than before.

He still hasn’t gotten a word out of the man. He sees no real issue with that, of course. There’s always tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes a week and a half for Artemis’ first letter to arrive on a palatable day in early March. It's felt like forever; no letters, no calls coming in from the rest of the world for him. He didn't expect much as he hasn't spoken to anyone outside of his family in long time, but, you know, it'd be nice if his old college mates gave him a ring.

So the letter handed to him from the front desk is both a pleasant surprise and passably expected. Hermes is more than happy to take it and sequester himself in his room to hear from his sister, not having seen her since Christmas break. He clears off the chair in the corner of the hat and the playing cards he'd thrown in it, settling in and opening the envelope with a little more gusto that he thought he could muster.

He’s not homesick, per say; his father’s house is a constant revolving door-esque soap opera of new mistresses, new scandals, and new reasons to put cotton in your ears. He does miss his brothers and sisters though. They’re rather spread out, always have been, but here hundreds of more miles away from them than before, it's beginning to wear on him. They hardly speak, but there’s always the option, always one of them dipping in and out of father’s home for various reasons. Even when friends leave or abandon you, you can still look to family to always be there.

Right?

Artemis’ letter is simple, unbothered by poetry or a sense of flagrancy as is endemic to his sister in general. Complaining about private school, expressing jealousy over Hermes spending time at a beach for a few months, wondering if she can come visit over the coming spring break. 

_I can't believe you got father to agree to this! I can’t barely get him to pay for a new bow for competitions, let alone a beach vacation…_

Hermes makes a face that. What exactly had Hera told her during their monthly phone calls? That this had been Hermes first choice? That Zeus was being generous, benevolent, not sending his son away as far as possible within reason so he can figure his life out?

Yeah, he could see her doing that.

By the time he gets a pencil and paper from the front desk to write his reply, he doesn’t even want to correct Artemis anymore, the idea of doing so not seeming worth it in the grand scheme of things. She’s 16, writing to him out of a sense of sisterly duty; he doesn’t need to complain or burden her with his own silly little issues. 

He has to start and stop often, words escaping him, erasing the beginning sentence enough he has to get a third piece of paper from the increasingly worried hotel worker. What does he even tell her?

It’s not even been two weeks. He’s in their uncle’s hotel. It's boring. He’s spent most of it walking around town, running errands for Hades, avoiding Nyx's hard gaze like the plague, or bothering the boat-

He’s not telling her about Charon.

Okay, he’ll tell her about Charon a little. But he’s omitting the parts where Hermes does stupid things, like staring, or watching from a distance, or implying Charon is doing shady under-the-table business or getting on his boat, or stealing his oar.

Twice.

The second time hadn’t been as dramatic as the first. He had just duct taped it to the side of Charon’s boat. Didn’t even see Charon’s reaction, though Skelly, the boat guy’s rude balding worker, did catch him. 

“What are you doin’, pal?” He had said, less angry than actively exasperated, the glint off his massive glasses irritating Hermes’ eyes when he looked over his shoulder from his work. It hadn’t been raining that day, so while the hull of the boat was dry, the weight of the oar was proving problematic in terms of taping it down. 

“What an interesting question,” Hermes had went back to his task, the ripping noise of more tape off the dusty roll he’d found snooping in the hotel’s electrical room damningly loud. “Very vague. Could be referring to anything honestly. Not sure what information you’re after...” 

There’s a sigh, the scuff of a shoe dragging itself on the wooden planks of the dock, the scratch of fingernail digging into mustache.

“You know, you’re pretty damn lucky bossman finds you funny but if I find you floatin’ in the shallows under the dock later, I ain’t gunna be too surprised.”

Hermes stilled at that, thumb tracing the smooth line of silver tape he’d just patted into place on the warm fiberglass. 

“He thinks I’m funny?” Skelly’s eyes narrowed, disbelief written in every line of his massive forehead as his jaw hung open just a bit.

“That’s what you’re gettin’ outta this?!” 

So Hermes wouldn’t tell Artemis about any of that. She’d think he was a psychopath and he’s done a good job so far convincing his sister that he is, in fact, not. Or at least not as much as Ares, which as a whole, is several leagues better.

* * *

It’s three in the afternoon by the time he finishes his three paragraphs of nonsense. He’s starving as he exits his room to the mostly empty hallway, dreaming of something warm from the diner, and tacitly ignoring the cleaning guy as he makes his way to the front. It's quiet, as it has been, but there's a distinct rumble of a very particular voice floating down the hall that tells Hermes his plans of 'mailbox then lunch' are about to be halted.

Hades is in the foyer, in his suit and tie, very fancy for a mildly sunny Saturday. He's speaking with a blonde man Hermes vaguely remembers seeing coming in for an interview. The man is handsome, for what it's worth, well cut jaw set in concentration as he listen to his new boss, long hair pulled back for an air of professionalism, and is of normal stature, which is to say tiny in comparison to Hades. 

What is it with this town and massive men?

There's a hunch to the man even as he stands resolute, hands clasped behind his back as Hades goes over various security measures in a gross amount of detail. It's less like Skelly's, born of years of horrid posture, and more of defeat, of an edge, as if he's attempting to appear less than the sum of his parts. He isn't exactly intimidating for a security guard, eyes soft and face friendly, but he seems built physically enough for his soon-to-be duty of wrangling unruly college students.

In any case, Hades seems sufficiently distracted in the midst of his lecture to notice Hermes sneaking out. 

“Got that letter you’ve been waiting for finally?” The bastard has the eyes and ears of a hawk, Hermes swears.

“Yes, thank you for asking. Took long enough.” He says, slowing as he passes. The new guy looks him over with an interest Hermes can only describe as bored, and he does not blame him. “Artemis said she sent it before I even got here and it’s only now just arrived." He's getting closer to the front door, Hades tracking him like a hunter does a deer. Or someone balefully watching their cat about to knock over something fragile. "Awfully slow mail service round here." Freedom is so close, he can almost taste the salty air and the drying seaweed. "Hopefully she gets this before the next decade-” 

“You know,” And Hermes halts, just about to make contact with the doors. Hades is a man of a very specific talent, and it is excessively annoying. “Considering the extended nature of your stay here, and given that you’ve no source of income to speak of, you could apply for the open postal position.” The new guy's eyes glaze over as he takes to staring somewhere outside the foyer window. “Postmaster can’t seem to get the blasted spot filled and he’ll be retiring any month now."

“Mm, I don’t think so." Hermes answers snidely, insulted. Hades eyebrows raise at that.

"Given your need to be completely in as much of a hurry as possible, you might do some good for post office." Oh, to just be impolite and leave. Hermes is incapable of not answering.

"How do I say this? It seems very boring and dull and for someone with more patience and it’s not like I’m staying here forever. Just got to figure it out first. Like you said, fixed amount of funds and all that.” 

“Can’t imagine what ideas you float around in that head of yours. Where are you going, by the way?” Oh, he's in it now.

“Down to drop this off?” He waves the letter as an indication. 

“Here.” Hades, crosses the foyer in three big steps, handing him a few dollars and Hermes takes it, mourning the separate reality in which he was not just about to be asked to get something inane from Charon’s shop. 

“You know, you could just walk down there and get whatever you’re about to request from me yourself, right?” 

“A stop at that man’s store to pick up some light bulbs will not meaningfully impede the ludicrous amount of time you have to think about your up and coming career plans.” He remarks dismissively to return to his new hire who's eye have gone very wide.

Hermes has nothing to say to that. 

* * *

The streets are alive with people today, and by alive, he does mean maybe seven, mostly elderly, walking in pairs and with their dogs in the breezy afternoon. A few chat, most continue in silence, the routine of daily exercise and the panting of their pets combined with the calming visuals of small town Americana enough to entertain without the need for words. They pay no mind to Hermes as he steps onto the sidewalk, intent on Charon’s shop despite his best efforts. 

He had a plan. A good plan, actually. One he could do, one that was entirely him. Sure, it would only take him into his early 30’s, but that’s ages away. 

Or, at least it was at the time. Now that plan is gone, impossible to fulfill, and he’s faced with the uncomfortable reality that he has no idea what he’s good for anymore. 

A man he’s never seen sweeps the outside of one of the knick-knack shops, and Hermes dips into the street to give him room. There’s been movement in the closed stores; their various owners coming in from their seasonal homes to clean and make nice for the coming spring break. Some even have help wanted signs in their windows. 

Its a thought he’s toyed with, just for something to do, but like everything Hermes tries to imagine himself doing for more than five minutes, he finds the fantasy hard to continue, the image slipping away into disinterest and active distaste. He's being picky, he gets that, but what is he supposed to do? College was terrible, the only things getting him through were some good words from his coach and the looming presence of his father. Every job he's had ended either because he's too onry, too impatient, or said something too out of line to keep around. 

The world is supposed to be his oyster, but he can't pay attention long enough to figure out how to open the damn thing.

Hermes jumps as a dog barks at him from the other side of the street. The owner waves in apology, pulling the lab along and chastising it in a quiet embarrassed sort of way. He waves back, no harm done, putting his musings on the back burner as he approaches his destination. No point in mulling over all that now as anticipation for seeing his favorite mysterious, possibly criminal denizen of Styx Beach speeding up his feet.

Maybe Hermes can wring a word out of him today. Very exciting.

The scene in front of Charon’s shop gives Hermes pause today, however, which isn't all that shocking as it has happened several times before now. Usually it's just Charon hanging out outside as Hermes jogs by, and he's had to slow to tell the man his feelings on the matter. This time is different, as there are two young boys just sitting on the sidewalk by the door, possibly the first children Hermes has seen, or at the very least acknowledged.

One can’t be older than five and the other is probably younger than twelve, though Hermes has no way of really knowing. He doesn’t spend time with children. Not really his thing. The only thing he can tell is that they don’t look anything alike, different hair colors, face shapes, skin tones; hell, the little one has two different colored eyes, neither of which are in common with his pal.

The younger one is playing with some green army men by the lip of the sidewalk, creating an elaborate scene with a few seashells and a rock, and the older one sits by him, a sort of protective air in the way he watches with his chin in his hand and his elbow resting on his knee. The sounds of explosions and childish military babble can be heard as Hermes approaches, the younger kid hopping his toys along and knocking them over in accordance with whatever rules he’s playing by. Hermes is determined to pass them without attracting their attention; talking to kids is weird, and awkward, and they talk too much, which is, you know, a little ironic considering-

“Hey.” The older kid has spotted him, trainers slapping too hard on the pavement or something having alerted the sharp eyed pre-teen to his approach. 

Damnit. He really needs to stop assuming he has any capacity to sneak around places. He's nil to a thousand at this point.

“Uh, hey.” Hermes says back, giving the now straight backed, hardline-browed kid a closed mouth smile and a nod. He can feel his suspicion the whole time he’s getting to the door and even when he’s got the door shut behind him. 

Weird kid. What are they even doing hanging around outside of Charon’s shop? It’s not like there’s anything to do around this part of town and don’t they have school? No, it’s Saturday, of course they don’t but still, this isn’t the most entertain- _oh,_ there’s a third child.

Charon is not in his corner as he usually is, instead slightly to the right, one hand in his pocket, the other arm around another child dozing on the stool, wrapped in a red blanket, head covered in a mop of curly hair the same color as Charon’s. The boat guy barely even ticks his head in Hermes' direction, giving a sniff as the toll of the door bell fades into the soulful country crooning on a radio by the register.

“Okay.” Hermes starts, knowing he’s going through at least seven different facial expressions right now. “One question, maybe two, perhaps more depending on the answer, if you answer but...you have kids?” 

Charon grunts, shaking his head. He’s not smoking right now, which is weird, but Hermes can only assume it's for the kid. Strange to see him without a cigarette between his scarred lips, without the smoking slowly drifting across the underside of his hat. Like something essential is missing. 

“Nephews? Cousins?” Hermes continues, excitedly interested. The child under Charon’s arm shifts at Hermes’ rather dramatic questioning, and his guardian tenses, gingerly unwrapping the one arm from the kid’s shoulders. “Someone just leave them here for you to sell? I would be hard pressed to believe you enjoy baby-sitting random people’s offspring in your spare time.”

“Brothers.” Charon signs rather sharply with a deep frown creasing the burns in his cheek, followed by pressing a finger to his lips, asking for some form of hush. It’s the most Hermes has seen him move in a short amount of time and he is frankly in awe of it as Charon puts his arm back around the child.

“Brothers?” Hermes’ volume lowers drastically though he is no less pronounced. “I would put you at thirty; how do you have such young bro-” It takes a second for what just happened to properly register, so caught up in the oddity of such a drastic age gap in siblings and Charon in motion but- 

Charon spoke, not verbally, but at the very least communicated with Hermes. An actual word directed his way and not just another grunt or sigh or, well, he’s mostly just grunted at him in various intonations of annoyed. 

Hermes has never been so grateful for taking that elective in college. 

“Hang on a moment.” Hermes tilts his head, bringing a hand up to point an accusatory finger at Charon loosely. “I spend the past week and a half being a right nuisance and it's only now you say a single word to me?”

Charon shrugs, notably silent again, hands or otherwise. 

“I can’t believe it. I was starting to think you were completely incapable of communication, considering everything, but I have to admire your dedication to the mystique, I suppose.” 

The bell dings again, door nearly hitting Hermes in the back as it flings open and he steps aside just in time to avoid being barreled over by the younger black haired child. 

“Charon!” He shouts excitedly coming up to the counter, nose barely making it over the top. “Mom’s coming!” 

Charon nods at the child, and the older boy follows in, carrying a knapsack and quietly apologizing to Hermes as he passes. Outside, a car, sleek and black, excessively clean considering the general rain they’ve been having. The car door opens as the two boys begin to argue over the younger leaving his toys for the other to pick up, and from the vehicle, to Hermes’ continued surprise, Nyx steps out, prim, proper, in every ounce of finery that one would not need when picking up their children.

First off, he should have figured Nyx had kids, but the idea of her ever having sex seems like such an outrageous concept, Hermes honestly feels wrong thinking about it. Secondly, how does she have three children so young but also Charon? And thirdly-

Well, he can’t actually think of a third thing as she all but glides into the store, so he resigns himself to updating his grievances later and instead backing up for her approach.

“Hermes, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.” It's said in such a dry manner that Hermes gets the impression it really isn’t all that pleasant. Fair enough; they haven’t said so much as two words to each other since the day he arrived. At most, she’s glared at him for listening in on her arguments with Hades every few days about the state of ‘her hotel’ and his ‘poor business acumen’. “I can only assume your uncle has you on another errand.”

“I can’t imagine how you guessed.” He says, equally as dry, a million questions bubbling to be asked.

If she was out of place at the hotel, Nyx is only more so here among the cramped shelves and well-worn wood. It’s dizzying trying to connect the dots between her and her supposed son, how Charon is a mismatch of intimidating tackiness and warped features and she a glorified socialite with nary a fault to her face or callus to her pristine hands. The incongruity is even more pronounced when the younger child adheres to her side, little pale fists in her fine dress.

“Mom, can we go get ice cream?” Nyx offers him a calm smile, prying one fist open to take in her hand. 

“No, dear Zagreus. We have to make your brother’s piano lesson.” The older boy comes to his mother’s side, still eyeing Hermes with a level of suspicious intensity that's frankly stunning for someone so young and Hermes idly wonders at what age is considered okay to fight a child. 

“What about tomorrow? Can we tomorrow?” She starts to lead them to the door, the older boy opening it for her.

“Perhaps we may stop on the way to your father’s, but I cannot guarantee it.” She looks to Charon, stopped in the doorway as Zagreus pops outside to go stand by the car.

“My child, can you bring Hypnos?”

Charon pushes himself off the wall as Nyx exits, taking his arm once again from Hypnos to come to the front of him. The motion is smooth, practiced as Charon picks up his brother; one arm under his knees and the other supporting his back as he cradles the child to his chest. Hypnos snuggles right in, unbothered even as he blearily blinks his eyes open. 

“Time to go home?” The sleepy boy asks. Charon gives an affirmative noise, walking across his shop with the utmost confidence and holding his brother with the utmost care. He doesn’t even acknowledge Hermes as he passes by, shoving the door open with his foot and lumbering to the car where Nyx waits. 

With a natural gentleness that surprises Hermes, Charon puts his brother away, carefully buckling him in and adjusting the red blanket the child is swathed in. He pats Hypnos’ head, and, before withdrawing from the car, produces some taffy from his pocket to sneak into Zagreus’ greedy hands. The older child seems to deny the offered candy, but does accept a pat on the arm with a resigned sort of affection. 

Nyx awaits Charon as he straightens. He leans down so his mother can take his face in her heads, press her lips to his cheek, murmuring something to him Hermes’ cannot hear from behind the glass. There is a tenderness to it, to the way her thumb strokes his cheeks, to the way his hard set mouth softens, that makes Hermes cast his gaze elsewhere, like he’s intruding on something private, something sacred.

He can't quite tell what's broiling in him at the sight, simultaneously too cold and too hot, throat constricting as he swallows thickly. He can barely even reconcile either of them are capable of such affection. Especially Charon in all his stiff, cold appearance and his silence. To see his expression morphed into something of reverence is...

Maybe he should've just stayed at the hotel today.

When Hermes glances back, Charon is shutting the driver side door, giving one final wave to the backseat before stalking back into the shop, all the warmth gone as he slips back into his usual demeanor. Hermes is still standing there among the clutter and static-ridden country, some odd mixture of shock and a low thrum of contrition keeping him rooted as Charon returns. There’s a tap that draws his attention, Charon flicking a ‘no loitering’ sign, that definitely wasn’t there before today, on the counter a few times pointedly before he continues his return to his corner.

Hermes blinks a few times, letting the clear demand settle as Charon, now at rest with his back against his wall, takes a metal cigarette case from his pocket, flipping it open. 

“I’m-” There’s just so many thoughts buzzing about, his mouth is sluggish to keep up. Why was he here again? Charon pulls a fag from the case, trading the case for a lighter as he puts the cigarette in his mouth. 

“I’m not loitering, actually.” He starts, finally getting his mouth in order, arrogance seeping back into his voice as he squashes down the melting pot of disparate emotions in his chest. “I’ll forgive you for assuming though, given everything but I do need lightbulbs, or, rather, Hades needs them and I’m merely the messenger boy at this point, despite my best efforts. So if you could point me in the right direction, I'll be out of your hair in a jiffy.” 

The lighter is flicked into life with a deafeningly click, it’s minuscule flame burning into the tip of the cigarette, smoke beginning to coil as Charon takes his first drag. Stowing the lighter away with all the hurry of molasses, Hermes almost wants to repeat his request given how he’s clearly being ignored. His words die in his throat, jolting as Charon grunts, mouth opening slightly to move the cigarette into the corner of his lips, pink tongue peeking out to trace its path over ruined flesh.

It's entirely innocuous, a normal sight but something about it has Hermes lost as Charon vaguely gestures in the direction of his request. He’s not quite sure why; perhaps the presence of something so mundane as a tongue is titillating given the aura of the rest of the man or perhaps the motion speaks to the same sense of tenderness as before, something intimate he should not be witness to. Either way, it is a sharp annoyed sound that snaps Hermes out of it, brings him back to the present with a faint blush and a shake of his head. 

He shuffles off to the shelf Charon gestures to, buys the lightbulbs without another word even as his eyes catch on the golden rings adorning Charon's hands when he slaps the change on the counter with a pointed look from behind his sunglasses, and Hermes leaves, thoughts turbulent, half a mind to toss the package into the ocean and watch the waves sink it to sands below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates will probably slow down now thanks to work stuff, just a warning. thank you for reading and the comments and kudos btw! I appreciate it immensely~


	5. Chapter 5

Observing Charon is becoming a habit, one Hermes is adamant to absolutely not admit, but one he keeps finding himself indulging in. 

“You know,” And so does every one else. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had problem.” 

The fact that his glass of water stays upright as Eurydice slides into the booth across from him is a miracle. It’s late, somewhere after 8pm. Hermes is the only one left, and Eurydice had been kind enough to let him stay as she and the middle-aged waitress cleaned the diner up for the night. There’s good humor to her lips, a little quirk as Hermes drops his eyes back to the few bits of fries in the red basket in front of him. 

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” He says, categorically not glancing out the window again. He’s not doing it. Not even a peek even as he finds himself fighting the want to check in his periphery for what’s happening.

Cause something is happening. Something is always happening. It’s the only place anything happens in this town. At least for another week.

Charon’s standing there, on his sidewalk outside of his shop, as he has been for a while now. There’s a van as well, beat up, old, sputtering when it rolled in enough to draw Hermes attention. A hippie looking couple had popped out, the woman cradling a baby, had headed inside for a good while, clearly deliberating something, and ending up leaving without purchasing anything. To Hermes’ shock, Charon stopped them from taking off, wandering his store with a purpose and eventually following them outside, carrying a box with him that he set in their van.

The man had shook Charon’s hand, exclaiming something jovially, though, clearly, Hermes couldn’t hear.

"Mhm." 

“It's," Hermes starts, floundering his very good and very sound defense "...just the most interesting thing to look at, right now.” Solid execution. Eurydice laughs out loud at that and Hermes shoves one of the last fries into his mouth. “It’s not like there’s any... ladies around for another few days. Have to have something to watch.” He winces the moment the words leave his mouth.

“So that’s your substitute?” Eurydice eyebrow raises and the food in his stomach churns uncomfortably. 

“What? No, I just...I mean that- I’m… not-” He’s babbling. Why is he babbling? It’s a joke, obviously as she lets him flounder a bit longer, scooching back to stretch her legs out onto the booth seat, but it’s just- “W-what is that even supposed to mean?” 

“You said it, not me, hon.” She sasses with a tilt of her head as she itches at her scalp from beneath the tightly pulled back curls, and Hermes stews for a bit, fighting back the urge to argue more to her light-hearted, meaningless jab that’s bouncing around his brain a little too much for his liking. From her rumpled apron, she pulls an envelope, carefully looking it over with a scowl as she crosses her legs.

“What’s that?” Hermes nods to the envelope, eager for a change in subject. She gives him a beleaguered sigh, worming a thumb under the flap to rip the top. Outside, the van pulls away, leaving Charon alone in front of his store, tall and ghoulish as always in the flickering light of the streetlamp to his left. 

He nods to Hermes, who swiftly looks away again. 

“Letter from my good-for-nothing husband.” Eurydice mutters, pulling the paper from the open envelope with a scrunch to her nose. There’s a waft of cologne coming from it, something cheap yet pungent. “Mailman finally dropped it off halfway through the dinner rush. Haven’t had time to read it till now.” 

“End of the day, great time to get a letter. Where’s he at again?” Hermes has only heard about Orpheus in passing small talk. A musician of some kind, travelling for gigs most of the time, though he usually stops back for busy seasons to be a lounge singer at the hotel. Hermes honestly couldn’t imagine a man who would willingly leave a woman as lovely as Eurydice alone for 9 months.

Must be an absolute dunce.

“Hell if I know.” She unfolds the pages, beginning to skim it, gnawing on the toothpick in her mouth like she might swallow it. “Last I heard, he was somewhere in California, but that was in January. Could be in hell for all I care.” He snorts, rolling the plastic water up in his hands, enjoying the rippled texture and cool condensation against his skin.

There’s a crooning song on the radio, drifting across the empty diner, something mournful and slow. The waitress tells Eurydice she's heading out and gets a distracted wave and a 'goodnight', leaving them alone with the neon decals and freshly mopped linoleum. Outside, Charon has gone back into his shop, turning lights off, organizing, and closing up for the night; his movements methodical and practiced, muscle memory guiding him through the routine more than anything, Hermes would assume.

How long has he been doing this? It’s not like he’s old, and the store probably isn’t a generation-to-generation family-owned business. Did Nyx buy it for him? She’s got loads of money still, if Hades is to be believed, and it wouldn’t be too shocking if she bought her poor disfigured son a store. And a boat. 

Hermes frowns at that. Why does it matter? It shouldn't matter to him;he isn't even going to be here that long. He doesn't even know the guy.

Across from him, Eurydice’s face darkens as she finishes her read, making a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. 

“What is it?” Hermes asks, tearing his gaze from the shop window. He’s on something else today, he swears. 

Well, he’s been on something for a while, considering it’s been around a week since the revelation Charon is Nyx's son, and he can't stop thinking about it, can't seem to get his head away from Charon in general. Fixated, latched onto the only thing of moderate intrigue he's found so far who just so happens to be a massive mute guy who could break Hermes in two if he wanted.

It's just he's... weird, you know? Interesting. An enigma, with his rings and his boat and his small town shop and his...face...

Yeah, that's it. He's a mystery and will probably get boring the moment people come back to town. It's fine.

“What day is it?” Eurydice asks, checking the scratched face of her well-worn wristwatch. Hermes shrugs, the last vestiges of ice clinking in his glass as he bats it around. He wouldn’t know the date if it was tattooed daily on the back of his hand.

“I dunno, the 6th, probably?” He says, thinking on it, “Uncle dearest was whining about a package not arriving by the 5th, which was yesterday, I think, but I could be wrong, days bleed together and I don’t think I’ve looked at a calendar in mo-”

“Orphy's coming back in a week.” Eurydice cuts him off, words quiet as she thumbs the letter.

“Oh, that’s alright then. I would hope.” She says nothing, folding the papers back up and putting it in her apron before casting a long look out into the darkened street. There’s nothing out there now, Charon’s shop is dark, even the rooms above without light, but the streetlamp continues its staccato beat, highlighting the empty corner of sidewalk.

“Have you ever wanted to get married, Hermes?” It's said wistfully after a while, taking Hermes by surprise as she continues to watch the lamp until it flickering ceases for a minute or two, rolling the toothpick mindlessly in the corner of her lips.

“Well, not thought much about it, to be fair." Her face pinches and she rights herself, sitting up. Hermes rolls a scrap of his napkin in between two fingers, flicking it into the mostly empty basket. "I suppose so, eventually.” 

“Yeah, well word of advice:” Eurydice gets out of the booth, grimacing as she stretches her arms above her head and lightly touching Hermes shoulder when she lets them fall again. “Don’t.”

* * *

It wasn’t a lie, what he told Eurydice. 

He leaves soon after, bidding her a good night as she turns off the lights and locks the door. Her answering goodbye is far away as she walks toward her home. Thankfully, it's just around the corner and down the street, so Hermes feels little obligation to offer her some company. Not that she would accept it, for good reason. 

Hermes is the bachelor guy, son of a famous adulterer. Eurydice's husband is constantly away and she's is a beautiful lady. People would talk.

It’s a cool night as he takes a detour to walk along the sands, the rush of the tide slowly encroaching as the evening wears on, the lap of the low waves splashing into the beach soothing in an archaic sense. He lets his head fall back to stare into the dark expanse above as he continues his journey to the hotel, always in awe of the amount of stars visible in such a tucked away nook of a town.

Most places he'd lived, you can barely see seven, let alone the whole damned universe.

It’s not that marriage doesn’t sound nice, or anything. It’s always been in the back of his mind, on the periphery when he vaguely thinks about the nebulous idea of a future he might want. The general idea of finding a girl he’d want to settle down with. Have kids, he guesses. It was something Zeus and his stepmom hinted at when coming here: while figuring himself out, look for a girl too while he was at it. Two birds, one stone and all that.

Much to their dismay, it’s never been an active goal though, has it? Not something he’s striving towards, just sort of hoping it’ll...happen. That he’ll meet someone and they’ll get on enough to want to spend the rest of his life with. It’s less out of a personal want and more of an expectation. It’s what you’re supposed to do, eventually. Isn't it.

He’s had relationships before, nothing long term. Various girls in secondary school and college, short flings all of them, quick and passionate but burning out within a few months as his interest wanes and more important things would crop up. He’s not great at keeping people around. Just how it goes, he supposes. 

It’s fine.

He pulls his leather jacket tighter around him, the breeze picking up off the waves, sending a damp chill through him. A pair are walking toward him, chatting easily in the lonely evening, one of the last few chances they’ll have before the vacationers begin to pour in and fill the beaches. Their words drift along the sands as they approach, both getting caught in a fit of giggles at something the man says in a choked way as if he can’t quite get the words out for the laughter bubbling from him. 

They hush as Hermes gets closer, conversation lulling as the three nod to their stranger, only starting back up when Hermes is out of eyesight behind them. He picks up the pace, just a little bit faster, the warmth of his lonely room calling just a little bit louder.

Out on the horizon, a boat floats along, it’s lonely helmsman backlit in silver among the dark swelling waves.

* * *

The next morning, he tries running again, head too busy and body buzzing for something to do. The rain proves tumultuous, his leg locking in the cold only a few minutes in, and he has to limp back to the hotel, annoyed yet defeated. By the time the clouds clear, he’s bored out his mind having spent the first half of the day holed up in his room to avoid Nyx and Hades whirling around the hotel looking for things to fix, or clean, or move, or argue about any combination of those three things. 

And, as usual, as is becoming standard, Hermes found himself at the docks the second it was feasible. 

"So have you always been a quiet bastard or do you just choose to be?" The fiberglass is wet under his ass, but, wouldn't you know it, he didn’t have enough forethought to bring a towel nor did he care enough to have it stop him from sitting there for almost two hours.

Charon tips his hat back, staring up at where Hermes is seated atop his boat on the flat roof over the steering bit. His mouth is a stiff line, his thumbs loosely hooked into his pockets, and his long sleeve has the top three buttons undone and it is maddening to Hermes with how he wonders how far those burns reach. He can smell the line of smoke off of Charon’s cigarette even from here, and wrinkles his nose at it as Charon takes his hands from his pockets.

"Can't talk." Charon signs, slowly, as though there's a reluctance to his words before he turns his back to Hermes to lean against the hull of his boat. From this angle, it's extremely difficult to ignore how broad the man's shoulder's are, but Hermes does his best, fueled by the fact that he's gotten some kind of response.

“I gathered that much. Not as stupid as I look, promise you that-” There’s a scoff but Hermes barrels through it as Charon crosses one ankle over the other, getting well and comfortable. “But you can talk, in your own way, clearly. I was more meaning if you simply choose to not say anything in some bid to look as much of a gargoyle as possible, which, fine job of it, by the way, or if you just have nothing to say?”

No answer is forthcoming to that, and the only evidence he’d even been heard is a rather great curl of smoke coming from the ridiculous bring of his hat. Hermes purses his lips at that as Charon’s disinterest in saying anything to his clear dig needles at him. So, he defaults to plan two, settling onto his front on the fiberglass top of the cabin and taking the oar he’d brought with him in hand. 

“You still haven’t locked this up I see,” He says smugly, letting the blade dangle down by Charon’s face as he lets his chin rest on his arm. “Not even the door was locked. Did you lose the key or something? Seems very out of character for you. Or at least I would assume it would be.”

Charon bats the oar from his head and Hermes is quick to pull it up, grin faltering when the boat guy goes back to his previous lax position. There’s a tiny, tiny voice in the back of his head wondering what would happen if he were to flip Charon’s hat off of his head with the oar. There would definitely be a reaction, but Hermes would also like to live longer than 22.

Luckily for the both of them, Hermes rolls onto his back with a dull hum, settling the oar back by his side. 

“You are outstandingly unflappable, you know?” Charon huffs at that, though whether in irritation or amusement, Hermes can’t quite tell. 

The boat rocks pleasantly under him, up and down with the ocean, lulling Hermes into Charon’s silence. Above, the sky is a perfect blue, interrupted only by the sparsest of full clouds drifting ever so slowly in the atmosphere, their passing cast long shadows and bringing relief from the afternoon sun. There's a cool to the air from the morning rain, but the dampness in it is enjoyable. It is peaceful, laying here, someone close by, no words said, drifting on the boat, listening to the waves and the gulls and the creaking of wood.

But peace is not something Hermes subscribes to. It’s stagnant, boring. Too little noise, too little movement, too little for too long. Just laying here, body thrumming with a nervous sort of energy as he wonders over several scenarios that could play out from here, most of them ending in his being thrown to sea, he can’t stop his lips from eventually flapping.

“If you had told me a week ago that you were Nyx’s son, I think I would have had a fit." He says to the sky and to Charon, expecting about the same reaction from both. "Thought you were absolutely loony. But here we are. Didn’t even think she’d have kids, but, surprises all around.” The trail of smoke thins as it disperses above Hermes head, though Charon says nothing to him, either with his hands or with a gutteral noise.

“This may be prying, but is that how you got all your finery and your boat?” He rolls back over, sitting up and oar in hand. “Nyx has quite a bit of money still, getting a sort of pension from the family so is she funding your endeavors?”

His first mistake was putting the blade of the oar back in Charon’s face. Or rather, it was taunting him about Nyx. Actually, it was probably coming here and climbing on the boat for no good reason other than to bother the man. 

To be fair though, he could just call this whole trip a mistake.

In any case, a hand, massive and swift, grabs the throat of the oar, stilling its wagging in one motion. He tugs from over his shoulder and Hermes lets the oar slip between his fingers in an effort to not be taken with it. Charon faces the boat, expression impassible and not facing Hermes, and makes to board.

Heart racing, Hermes clambers off as Charon gets on, not wanting to be flipped again; he’s learned at least something of a lesson from the last time. He lands a little awkwardly, pain zinging through his leg as he hits the dock, and he holds back the subsequent yelp when his eyes tear up at it. When he looks up after he’s recovered, Charon is watching from behind his sunglasses, oar tucked under his arm. 

“You can be kind of scary, you know.” Hermes calls to the hulking figure surveying him, putting his hand on his hips as he stands up. To his surprise, Charon steps closer to the side of his boat, and Hermes instinctively steps back. He plucks the stub of a cigarette from his mouth between his thick index finger and thumb, flicking it at Hermes head, who ducks aside too quickly for it to hit him.

“You keep bothering me.” Charon's hands are punctuated as he signs, forceful, ruined mouth a grimace. He leans with both hands on the rail, domineering as he watches his current nuisance.

“Can’t help but notice you haven’t told me to stop.” Hermes shoots back, smiling toothily, and, for a long long moment, so long Hermes fights to not vibrate out of his skin, Charon just stares at him, stoic and motionless. 

Not for the first time, Hermes wonders what he's thinking. Damn, he'd give anything to know what kind of thoughts are going through that head as Charon contemplates what to do, mouth thinning with each passing second. Just seeing his eyes would be enough, just to know how their looking at him in this moment, at this point, Charon licking his lips, fingers tightening on the rail of his boat.

Hermes fully expects to get something else thrown at him, for Charon to tell him to fuck off, for him to do literally anything. Hell, he wouldn't be shocked if Charon jumped back off the boat to slug him in the face. He probably deserved it.

Instead, Charon lets his head drop with a sigh between the outstretched arms he leans on, before straightening and turning, waving Hermes away as he lumbers out of sight without another sound. Hermes blinks, half a mind to call out after him, but he knows it wouldn't do any good.

* * *

He doesn’t like the way Nyx catches his eye when he returns to the hotel, face passive but there’s a scornful knowledge in her gaze that rubs him the wrong way. He gives her a little wave. She nods in acknowledgement before returning to listening to the security man, Achilles, who's had to gently remind Hermes of his name at least three times.

The knot that had settled in his stomach since leaving the dock increases in weight tenfold. The fun of annoying Charon faded quicker this time, if not immediately, and seeing Nyx all but glaring at him made it worse. She absolutely knows what he's been up to.

Speaking of which, what the hell is he doing? He's supposed to be figuring his future out and Charon is just some guy trying to live his life which he's clearly got figured out and Hermes is just...bothering him. For what? Cause he’s a little weird? Is he that bored he’s got to intrude on this man’s day to day because he's a little left to normal? Cause he looks like someone who could smack some sense into Hermes if he pushed just right-

He lets his head his room door the moment he gets to it. Thankfully no one around to see it in the empty hall. That's a thought he's not letting get any traction, even if it is true. Which it isn't.

He's just-

Charon's-

He lets his head hit the wood again, this time a little too hard and he curses, rubbing his stinging temple. The knot in his gut hasn't loosened, and his cheeks are heating up the more he thinks about how much of an unadulterated moron he's been. Charon's a nice guy; he doesn't deserve this, doesn't need Hermes being a nuisance every other day, doesn't need some random bored rich kid taking his angst out on him. Little over two weeks and he's already made a right idiot of himself.

There’s a box waiting for him on his bed, left there by the cleaning staff. It squashed on one corner, but otherwise pristine, and it doesn’t take a genius to recognize the grapevine logo on the side. He puts the package on the chair, on top of the book of sign language he'd been skimming through he'd picked up from the library a few days ago, and sits down on the edge of the neatly made mattress. 

He should probably apologize, set them straight, and leave the poor man alone. He's got his own stuff to worry about without wondering if Hermes' is going to do something stupid to his boat. Again. And Hermes needs to actually do what he came here for; find an internship or a job or something, anything to get him thinking about how he's supposed to avoid a lifetime of being daddy's secretary or whatever horrible idea Zeus has for him if he doesn't get his shit together soon.

Hermes looks to Dionysus' package, bouncing his leg as he rest his head in his hand, leaning on his elbow on his still knee. Outside, in the foyer, he can just hear something heating up between Hades and Nyx, and the scrabbling of any and all employees in the near vicinity finding their respective tasks to hide behind. Beyond his window, some sparrows flit away as one of the other hotel patrons paces back and forth, patting down his suit jacket for something he's probably lost, and Hermes watches in a vaguely interested sort of manner as the man retraces his steps once, twice, five times before giving up and heading inside, all the while Hermes wondering:

How the hell is he going to make things right with Charon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermes has acquired one (1) realization.


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, it’s hard to wake up. 

There’s light streaming in from between the curtains, invading his shut eyes. There’s birds calling outside his window. There’s a man talking loudly on the phone in the room above him, arguing with someone defensively. There’s the knock of the cleaning staff a few doors down. 

The last vestiges of a dream leave Hermes, a dread lingering, skimming the surface of consciousness as he becomes more and more aware of being awake. He can still feel the pressure on his leg, the panic in his lungs, certain that he would die there, trapped, alone on the side of the road...

The problem isn’t the dreams, the nightmares; they come and go, warped memories of something long past, something immutable, something unchangeable. The panic always fades, the fear always ebbs as he realizes he is in his room, in his bed, safe and free to move as he wishes. A dream is a dream, and despite what emotions it may invoke, he is alive; he is fine.

The problem is opening his eyes and knowing that he has no grasp on what’s coming next. The past is done and over with but the future used to be something he had every capability to control. He had structure, schedule, a path forward, group of people supporting him, everything. 

Now, there is no structure, there is no plan, those people have abandoned him in the wake of him no longer being of use to them, and he is left with the knowledge that when he opens his eyes, his future is nebulous and what comes next is entirely up to him and yet, at the same time, unknowable and turbulent. And that’s more terrifying than any nightmare could ever be.

Hermes does as he has for many mornings now with no training or coaches or purpose. He opens his eyes. He sits up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and he starts his day, trying his best not to think about it.

* * *

So. 

Apologizing. 

Right. 

Hermes taps his pen against the pad of paper he’s borrowed with every intention of returning to his uncle’s office, though, in all honesty, he absolutely will not. A laugh track plays from the tube TV in the foyer, the front desk girl watching some show or another, eyes glazed over as characters talk and joke at length. Hermes wouldn’t know what was going on if he tried; he’s not big on sitting down and staring at a television for longer than maybe ten minutes. 

He’s been here, seated upon the couch in the foyer, for a half hour now. Production is slow, evidenced by the fact that maybe six words have been written, two of them being ‘bigger hat’ in all capitals and underlined three times. He would say he’s trying his best, but Hermes is under no delusion of that holding up in court. 

What court? Great question: moving on. 

The thing is, he could just walk up to the man, oust himself as an antagonistic asshole, and they’d be done. Easy, simple, but that doesn't feel complete. Like there’s something missing in this imagined scenario of groveling over his bullheadedness. He needs something to hand over, a peace offering, a showcase that he’s willingly given up either money or time in his own contrition, that his penance has a worth, has a reason to be accepted. 

The problem, of course, is that he knows next to nothing about the large man in question. Also, he doesn’t have a lot of cash. Also a second, the only store of worth in the town is owned by the large man in question. He could get him something from the specialty shops next door, but welcome back to point A on his list of problems. 

Hermes has a sneaking suspicion Charon does not enjoy free-diving. 

It's quiet in the hotel this morning. Nyx is off somewhere upstairs, glowering over the repairman, and Hades is out for the day, something about going to the city. Hermes had perked up at that when he mentioned it minutes before leaving, his uncle having stopped by the hotel to give some instructions to his labor force on what they need to do in his absence. Even though Hermes would loathe to spend even a half hour in the car alone with his uncle, he could get a few ideas from wandering around the downtown area, plus with Hades around, he could ask for an advance on his funds.

He was, as expected, shut down with a ruthless efficiency. 

“Unfortunately, this trip will be me and me alone.” Hades had said, not even sparing a glance at his nephew as he handed the front desk girl her tasks for the day. “My schedule is already full enough without having to pencil in your blundering about.”

Why does he talk like that? 

“Putting off spending time with your dear nephew once again, for shame.” Hermes remarked dryly as he bit into an apple as obnoxiously loud as possible, not hiding his disappointment. “You know, if I could hazard a guess, this might be why my father never visits.” 

“Oh, good.” There was a generous amount of mirth in his voice as he walked out the front doors, heavy footsteps reverberating even on the well-trodden carpet. “Then I shall endeavor to change nothing.” 

Hermes had shook his head, groaning inwardly as he took a less offensive bite of his fruit. The desk girl had immediately popped out from behind the desk to switch the T.V. on with a shrug when she caught Hermes questioning brow, filling the entryway and foyer with the chatter of vaguely comedic reruns. Outside, his uncle’s massive white car backed out of it’s spot, and Hermes could swear he saw the outline of a small head sitting in the back seat.

Hades doesn’t have a kid, does he? Hermes taps the pen harder against his knee, canned laughter overtaking the conversation on the T.V once again. Is that why he can’t stay at his uncle’s house? Cause he’s got secret children? Does everyone in this town have secret children?

The pen goes flying out of his hand, slipping from his distracted jittering clutch, but luckily he manages to grab it before it flings over the side of the couch. He holds it in the air proudly, glancing at the desk girl who isn't paying attention. He drops his arm, pursing his lips and staring at the list in from of him, frustration growing as he rereads the nonsense he's scribbled there.

He has no idea what the hell he's going to do, does he? Charon's going to laugh in his face, no matter what he offers or says, which Hermes would deserve, granted, but the inevitable end to all this is Charon having no interest in Hermes being around, and probably losing whatever mild entertainment he gets out of Hermes being a nuisance and not even acknowledging him anymore-

Hermes rips the page out, crumpling it, and throwing it at the bin across the foyer. It just barely bounces off the rim, landing some centimeters away from the trash. He lets his head fall back with a frustrated groan against the pocked trim of the couch. Just isn't his day, is it?

“Good job.” The desk girl mutters, still glued to the tube, chomping annoyingly on her gum. Oh, so she was paying attention. Fantastic. 

He should just suck it up and go apologize. Who cares if Charon won't talk to him anymore? The man's said ten words to him so far; they aren't friends. 

Hermes thinks on that. Has it been ten words? He starts counting on his hands, trying to remember, bouncing his knee where his leg is crossed over the other one. There was the day with his brother's, and then yesterday-

"What an interesting surprise seeing you gracing us with your presence today." A cold drenches him, heart stopping as the cool voice of Nyx washes over him. The desk girl's eye widen in fear, slowly moving into a more professional posture so as to not draw attention, and Hermes forces his expression to shift into something more welcoming as he looks over his shoulder. 

"Ah, not hanging out around too long," Nyx comes round the back of the couch, overly-formal dress flowing in the gliding practiced manner of someone completely conscious of the picture she makes. It's intimidating the control she has over herself, presenting less of a person and more of an art, of something untouchable as she looks down upon where Hermes is sprawled on her hotel couch in his jeans and sleeveless top. "Plenty of things to do today." 

"How very prosaic of you, spending your morning watching television. One would think you had better things to do with your time." The urge to make a snide remark is overwhelming, yet Hermes bites his tongue. Hades will throw them back in his face; Nyx would probably use it to sign his death sentence. 

"Oh, well," The desk girl goes pale, clearly waiting for him to oust her. "Just like a bit of background noise while I make my schedule for the day." He nonchalantly waves the blank pad of paper to add to his point. Desk girl's shoulder fall, softly breathing again. 

Nyx's plucked brow raises, and she switches the T.V. off before her gaze alights upon the crumpled paper still on the floor, still by the bin, a minute flicker of agitation crossing her placid face. Hermes has a brief moment in which he sees his life flash before him at the thought of her reading ‘bigger hat’ on the list. Her hands begin to unfold from where they are clasped over her abdomen and Hermes is across the room before Nyx can even begin to lean down.

He snatches the ball of paper, straightening with a forced smile as Nyx tilts her head at him. Somewhere, a clock chimes over into the new hour.

“Sorry bout that,” He slips the paper into his pocket, backing up, not wanting it anywhere near Nyx’s pristine talons. “Was just about to grab it.” 

"As you are a guest here, I would certainly hope you would do your best to not make more work for the employees." She stares at him as he continues to back up to the front desk, hawk-like, waiting for an opportunity to strike. "They have enough on their hands." 

"Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am, won't be making anymore trouble today, even! Heading out to start on my afternoon-" He places the pad of paper on the desk, winking at the girl. "Borrowed this from my dear uncle. Could you put it back on his desk for me?" Gratefully, she nods, taking the excuse to scamper off away from her other boss. Hermes makes for the glass doors, freedom within sight as he waves at Nyx. "Have a great day!"

He doesn't really know why he thought that would be the end of it as his feet his the concrete.

"Hermes," Hermes makes it approximately five steps onto the sidewalk before she follows him. He faces Nyx who stands in the shade of the overhang, seemingly out of place in such bright day, dreading her next words.

"I was informed by my son that a little bird has been coming by his property rather frequently, often misplacing items and twittering unnecessarily, disrupting his business hours.” She speaks in an even, unhurried tone, posture straight and proper, not even a twitch of anger about her as she addresses him, though Hermes is already beginning to draft his will. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

It’s pleasant out today, the sky clear and blue and the temperature neither cool nor warm; perfect to simply exist in. Despite this, Hermes is starting to sweat, cold along the nape of his neck and shoulders and horridly hot in his palms. Running would be the smartest thing to do, but he'd have to come back eventually, and she would be waiting.

“Might.” He says, looking down at his feet as he scuffs the toe of his trainer on the sidewalk. “Shouldn’t be much of a problem though. I’m, uh, rather, bird should be making up for it tonight.” Is it surprise in the wrinkle of her forehead or relief?

“I would hope so. As much as Charon prefers I not meddle in his affairs, nor does he need me to-" He holds back the snide remark about her son being in his thirties and out-weighing Hermes by at least a good hundred pounds and being completely capable of throwing him all the way to Europe. He'd be vaporized on the spot from the sheer ferocity of her disdain. "Should things escalate, I will not hesitate to find any number of avenues that would lead to our shared grievance flapping his way back home.”

Really glad he kept that comment quiet.

* * *

He leaves after he swears that he's fixing this all tonight, making sure to take a route that is distinctly not beach-bound as he escapes. When he's certain Nyx has returned to her stalking around the hotel, he doubles back, wanting the rhythm of the ocean to quell his turbulent thoughts. Nothing like a vague threat to his current living situation to start his day. 

Temporary stalls and carts have begun popping up around the public part of the beach and the boardwalk, though Hermes has not seen any of them manned. All are locked, or empty, all covered in tarp, their owners not yet filling them with goods or trinkets for the spring break crowds' imminent arrival, yet clearly wanting to claim their spaces early. There's an tension about them, like a man balanced precariously on the precipice of a cliff, anticipating the chaos soon to ensue.

Hermes peers through the seams of the tarps as he passes, distracted even as he tries to think about what he's going to do, what he's going to say. The bus for the city has long left, and while, yes, in theory, there is an avenue available to him to get to there without said bus, he's not taking it. He had to hide from his uncle a few days ago when he received the call the company car was ready for pick up just to not have to drive again. He's not taking the damn thing on the highway, let alone in town. 

He kicks a shell some gull had left on the boardwalk, listening to the plunk of it hitting the ocean with some sort of satisfaction. The idea of just apologizing with nothing in hand is becoming more and more attractive even as the anxiety of appearing insincere grows and grows. Or maybe he can just avoid it altogether, and just never speak to Charon again, and then go into hiding and be a hermit on some island nearby, but that would require significantly more materials than just apologizing and he onyl knows one person with a boat, which is exactly the person he would be trying to avoid-

A loud ' _fuck!'_ draws his attention, blinking in the noon sun as he gazes down the path, past a lady writing on chalkboard sign and a weird waving wooden man that had been erected to attract customers to Skelly at the end of the boardwalk, kicking stacks of pale wooden crates having been stacked outside the back of Charon's shop. Hermes starts walking faster, curiosity overriding whatever he was futzing over. As he approaches, Skelly begrudgingly picks up a crate with some trouble with its weight and dimensions.

Weird to see Skelly actually working. Even weirder to see him working manually. Hermes is quick to point that out as he comes within earshot. 

“Color me surprised," Hermes starts, coming to a stop a few feet from the stack that's nearly as tall as him. The door to the back of the shop is propped open with a box, giving him a view of the cluttered back room. A catchy melody from the radio drifts outside, just within earshot. "You **can** do more than sit around and read tabloids all day.”

“Charon ain’t around right now, in case that’s what you were after.” Skelly huffs, setting the crate he'd been struggling with back onto the stack and cracking his hunched spine with a grimace. Either he's already moved several of the crates, or he's just extremely easy to wear out as his massive forehead is already shining with sweat, cheeks red from the effort under his mustache. 

“Just out for a walk today, but thanks for the concern. What’s all this?” He nods to the crates as Skelly brushes some grit off his palms. “Looks a little heavier than the usual guff in the store.” He adjusts his large glasses back in place on the bridge of nose, eyeing Hermes up and down. There’s contempt to his once-over and while it bristles at Hermes, he keeps his mouth shut. 

“What do you want, pal?” Hermes starts to answer but Skelly doesn’t give him the chance, placing a hand on the top most crate. “You’re never down here unless you want something, so spill it.”

“Just, um, well…” He's taken aback, not expecting such a pointed question, even less expecting to have much an answer. Bothering the hunched man holds little interest for him, honestly, but perhaps, he does work for Charon, so maybe... Hermes taps his foot, making a decision. “Alright, this is going to sound weird, which may not shock you given everything but I’m trying to figure out how to apologize for my behavior since coming here, which I’m certain you’re not interested in whatsoever, but if you know something Charon, I have no idea, likes or wants so I can maybe...get him a gift…” He trails off at the end, the more he talks to weirder it sounds.

A breeze picks up, carrying a downy feather past them as Skelly stares openly at Hermes, forehead wrinkling more and more with each passing second.

“That’s the fruitiest goddamn shit I’ve ever heard.” He says finally. There’s a chill that hits Hermes that has nothing to do with the breeze, direct and sharp in his chest, and Hermes narrows his eyes. 

“Excuse me?”

“Eh-” Skelly scratches the back of his neck, all at once sheepish and unsure. “I don’t know jackshit about Charon. I’m just his skeleton crew, pal. But I do know what you could do to make it up to me for being a nosy Nelly.” He pats the stack of crates decisively, giving Hermes a look. “Save my back a lot of trouble.”

Hermes wrinkles his nose. 

“Seems like an absolute waste of my time. What’s in it for me?” 

“I dunno." Skelly shrugs, struggling to come up an excuse. "Sense of accomplishment? I don’t tell the bossman you been snooping around asking dumb questions?" He didn't think of that, damn it, his stomach flipping at Skelly's words. That's the last thing he needs. "You ain’t doin’ nothing anyway…”

“Alright, I suppose I could help you," Hermes says after a moment much to Skelly's clear delight, already tired looking at the crates. "You’re not exactly wrong about my schedule for the day, but only if this exchange didn’t happen.” 

“Pal, my lips? Sealed.”

* * *

To say the crates are heavy is an understatement. Add on top of that the fact that they are wide and unyielding makes the entire experience wholly awful.

“I can’t help but, uh," His fingers are going numb, the hard cut of the wood that makes up the splintery crate digging uncomfortably into his skin. "Notice these are excessively heavy. What’s even in them?” 

“Hey, less gabbin’, more grabbin’.” Skelly grunts as he leads Hermes with the third crate up the stairs, going slow so to not slip, “Contents, fuck, ain’t none of my business, and I’m the one gettin’ paid, so that means it’s even less of yours!”

The contents click and shift like glass Hermes and Skelly carry them up to the second story. Each step groans under them, threatening to crack if Hermes so much as touches a toe on them incorrectly. The poppy music that highlights this experience does little to take the edge off the strain.

It takes fifteen minutes to get the six up there, Skelly adamant they’re only taking them to the entryway at the top. He smack the top of the tallest stack they've made, frowning at it as he huffs in physical exertion. 

“Door’s locked anyways. Charon can move this shit himself when he gets back at closing.” Hermes’ arms burn, never being one for strength training. His leg is also in all sorts of ways, twinging from the six trips up the stairs with tens of pounds added onto him. He's going to be sore tomorrow, that's for damn sure.

"He delivered this via his boat, correct?" Hermes asks, looking around the small entry way. It's walls are grey, empty, the only thing note being the worn brown mat by the door and a spare pair of massive boots on top of that.

"Yeah, sure, but that ain't any of your business, pal, so lets get back dow-" The front bell dings, a customer entering the shop. “Shit!” Skelly yelps, immediately taking two steps at a time, leaving Hermes alone on the landing.

Hermes glances back at the crates stacked innocuously by the locked door. One of the lids has been knocked loose from Hermes’ own shaky handling, not enough to reveal anything within but enough to be dangerous. He hears Skelly greet the customer in an overly familiar, somewhat nagging fashion as though this isn’t the first time he’s seen the person today. Which would mean he’s not going to notice Hermes taking an extra second to follow him.

Crouching and edging his finger under the wood, he shifts it back more, ears straining for anything that could sound like someone coming to look for him. Inside, in neat little partitioned rows are clean brown glass bottles. It’s clear each is filled with liquid as even the minutest shift of his knee against the crate upsetting whatever is inside. Hermes picks one up, noting it’s unlabeled nature and the proof stamped into the glass with an air of surprise. 

It’s all alcoholic.

The doorbell dings again, Skelly shouting out after the leaving customer and with a start, Hermes puts the bottle back, pulling the lid back into place and taking the stairs carefully to not draw attention to the fact that he was absolutely, 100% not snooping like some kind of jaded ex. Skelly is at the magazine rack as he nonchalantly steps back into the store, mulling over his choice of reading material for the afternoon. He doesn’t even look up as Hermes heads for the exit.

“Hey,” Skelly stops him as he touches the handle, the hunched man meekly ribbing the back of his neck. “For what’s it's worth, thanks. Saved me a lot of trouble. An’ I swear, Charon won’t hear a peep about you askin’ weird shit.” 

Hermes makes a surprised noise at that, kind of wishing Skelly had just let him leave without a word.

"No problem." He says, taking his leave, thoughts returning to the bottles upon bottles he'd just carried as he begins his aimless walking once more. Across the street, Eurydice's waitress is taking a quick smoke break, granting Hermes a nod as he passes for the greater part of town. 

That’s a lot of booze if it's the same for every crate. Is that what Charon does so early in the morning and so late in the evening? Stocking up? 

How much of an alcoholic is the man he needs that much? He’s never smelled like it, just cigarette smoke and salt, but maybe Hermes has just never been close enough to notice. He never acted drunk though, too controlled, too reserved to be anything but stone cold sober. 

It would make sense he has to go out of town for it all though. Place is dry, but people can bring in alcohol for personal consumption. The cops, who Hermes shocked haven’t been called on him yet, would probably start getting suspicious if Charon was bringing that much in at once. Maybe he’s stocking up for the busy season when the police are feasibly more on their guard for illegal sales to tourists.

Does he drink that much during tourist seasons? If he's got eight crates of whatever alcohol, maybe even more if this isn't the first delivery he's man, Charon could give Dionysus a run for his money…

Hermes stops, halfway to the library, some nebulous thought about finding a book on brewing and how to tell a beverage from its proof having been steadily leading him there. Dionysus' box is still on his chair, unopened and forgotten. There’s no doubt he’s sent something alcoholic; he always does, along with usually something salacious Hermes has to scrabble to get rid of. 

There’s a reason his lush of a brother’s packages never get opened in front of polite company. 

Hermes can already imagine the letter with the overly pricey bottle of wine or whisky Hermes will invariably forget to drink, written sloppily and barely legible yet perfectly encapsulating Dionysus’ particularly laid-back attitude.

_Hey, Hermes, my man! Real drag you picked the one beach you can’t get smashed at. Sent you a little something to tide you over till you get back to reality._

If he's right, and his brother sent him some booze...

Hermes claps as he mutters a 'yes!', arms pumping in a self-congratulatory manner, and then giving an awkward hello to the middle aged woman power-walking across the street. She shakes her head, picking up her pace and pumping her arms faster. This does little to diminish the relief he’s currently reveling in, one problem solved and a plan falling into place as his mind whirs excitedly.

Skelly said Charon is coming back at closing. It has to be somewhere around 1p.m. Hermes starts to turn heel, head back to the hotel, but thinks better on it and continues to the library. 

He still kind of wants that book. 

* * *

Waiting outside Charon’s shop with an express purpose in mind is...weird. Usually, he's just bumming around, or deliberately trying to goad the man. The fact that he's deliberately trying to not be obnoxious, not be in the way strikes him oddly after three weeks of doing just that.

He’s sitting on the boardwalk, legs over the side, facing away from the shop’s back door. The fish darting about in the undisturbed waters under him have long lost their entertainment value as the minutes tick by. The sun slowly disappears over the horizon, casting oranges and pinks along the calm waters that roll in unceasing and uncaring. 

He's seen the sun set over the ocean before, but never quite like this: alone, quiet, no college mates or chattering family nearby to distract him from the simple beauty of it. There's no one around, most of the town eating dinner or settling in for the night before work tomorrow. Just him on his own, observing the glittering water reflecting back the waning light as if the very ocean was on fire. He can't tell if its better.

Anxiety has begun to well within him, coiling and uncoiling whenever he lets his mind wander too far ahead into his plan and his hands keep wandering to the little messenger bag he’d managed to scrounge up in a backroom at the hotel. He’s picked a few splinters from the planks he’s sat upon, having flicked them into the sea to be carried ashore with the lackadaisical waves. He pats the bottle of wine hidden in the bag once more, as if to be sure he hadn't forgotten it.

Hermes has an idea of what he’s going to say. Nothing fancy, you know, try not to speak too much, make himself sound too much more like an asshole than he already has. Saying it will be hard; he doesn't want to admit any wrongdoing, becasue who does, but he'll get over it. It's not the words that make his insides clench painfully as he plays out every possible scenario again and again and again.

It's what is going to happen afterwards.

He lets out an unsteady gust of air he hadn't know he'd been holding, relief entering his lungs as he breaths normally again. Hermes runs a hand through his hair, trying his best not to think of a worst case scenario, one he isn't even sure he knows why the idea of it bothers him so much. But there is a reality to it, the very reason he needs to set things straight in the first place because in all terribly painful and illogical honesty-

He doesn't want Charon to hate him. 

There’s a wheezing cough behind him, and Hermes finds that only his death grip on the dock keeps him from finding out the exact temperature of the ocean today. Charon is leaning against his metal, rusty door frame, keeping the back door propped open as he exudes the complex aura of being entirely too comfortable. How long has he been standing there, just watching, cigarette burning away in hand?

“Hey-” Hermes scrambles to stand up, ears heating up for no damn good reason even as he almost knocks the messenger bag into the water.

“What are you doing?” Charon asks, no real hostility in the way he signs. Just a sense of resignation in his slow words and relaxed stance. Maybe it's the last vestiges of the sun dipping below the ocean, casting an orange glow across Charon’s gnarled jaw. Maybe it's the way his sunglasses glint in the waning light as he looks down on Hermes with a mildly amused expression.

Maybe it’s how tiny the cigarette looks between his long fingers, its smoldering size dwarfed by the digits it loosely hangs from as he flicks ash from the tip. Hermes doesn’t know, but it’s like someone has stacked bricks on his chest, like his lungs are being squeezed together. He shakes his head a bit, tongue tied. 

“Uh, I’m-” Words right. He's got those. Lots of them. “Nothing. Hanging out.” He points behind him at the horizon beyond. “Lovely sunset round here. Got a bit distracted watching it.” 

Charon’s eyebrows raise from behind the circular lenses of his sunglasses, and Hermes gets the impression eyes are being rolled at him as he fidgets with the strap of the bag on his shoulder. Charon drops the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel, the boardwalk groaning under them both. He kicks off the door frame, making to head inside and Hermes’ heart drops into his stomach.

“Charon, wait-!” Astoundingly, Charon does, and with all the hurry of sap running down a tree, he steps out of the door frame to face Hermes and letting the metal door close behind him. Charon stands resolute before him, gesturing at him to say whatever he needs to say before hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his dark trousers.

Hermes opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it again, the distinct feeling of being dissected as Charon stands stock still, waiting for him to speak his piece. 

“Look, I’m...we...alright, this isn’t exactly easy for me to say, not so good at this kind of thing if I’m being honest so I’m just going to say it but-” He takes in a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his eyes level with Charon's sunglasses. “I wanted to apologize. I- I think we got off on the wrong foot, er... rather, I did and continued to escalate things unnecessarily. So-” He pulls the wine out of his bag awkwardly, no longer capable of looking in Charon's face. “Here. I’m not trying to bribe you or anything, just think of it as a peace offering or something, I mean you don’t have to take it, I’m not even sure you like wine but it’s good, I swear and…”

He snaps his mouth shut, cutting himself off and closing his eyes before peeking at Charon’s passive face and timidly holding out the wine. His mouth is grim as his shoulders drop, pleading silently to just be normal, just this once.

“Can we start over?” 

Beyond them, a gull calls out over the ocean, searching for one last snack. A conversation floats over to them from across the street, beyond the string of boardwalk shops. The ships rock in their respective spots at the dock. The world exists outside of this moment, Hermes is well aware, but he can only focus on Charon as seconds pass by without even so much of a twitch from the man as he observes Hermes struggle not to squirm. 

There is a shaking to his wide shoulders and Charon laughs, a wheezing rattle of a sound that overtakes his silent throat. He takes the bottle, nodding as Hermes is frankly stunned he's managed to get a chuckle out of the man. Confidence brimming at this, he offers a hand to Charon.

“I won’t bother you anymore, I can promise you that much, leave you well enough alone if you prefer. Oh and I’m Hermes by the way, though I’m sure someone’s told you alrea-” There’s a flash of something hot and electric that shoots from where Charon’s hand engulfs his, down his arm and settling low into his gut. His words are gone as Charon shakes his hand, and he quite suddenly can't breath again. Thankfully, Charon lets go, not having noticed Hermes' silence and already signing his response, putting the bottle under his arm. 

"I'm aware." His expression has softened, a tiny tilt to his lips that could be misconstrued as a smile if Hermes were brave and not currently reeling. "It's nice to meet you."

* * *

Charon went back into his shop after that, and to say Hermes bolted is an understatement, wound up like a jack-in-the-box and nowhere to go. When he finds himself at the dock again, a burning question in mind, he isn't too shocked, too excitedly anxious to care. He'd made his promise, yes, but...

It’s just one more time. 

He’s not touching anything. He’s not taking anything. He just wants to see…

The door to the cabin drifts open at his touch, quiet and well oiled and clearly unlocked, inviting. Hermes makes a sound in the back of his throat, heart hammering as he takes one step forward, two steps forward, quaking with energy. He's going to be quick, one question already answered, and then he'll be gone, no one the wiser. Charon could come back any time, see Hermes going back on his word and fucking around on his property again.

He stops, checking over his shoulder for the massive hat or the looming figure. No one is out there of course; just a lonely seagull watching Hermes from where it’s perched on one of the seats outside of the cabin. It tilts its head, blinking at him with its beady yellow eyes and puffing its white and grey feathers before shaking its head with a yawn. 

Hermes ignores it, slinking back into the cabin. Nothing’s changed, as one would expect. It's only been a day since he was last here; why would anything change? He shouldn't even be here and he's starts to go, guilt filling him when something catches his eye.

There, on the oar where it rests on it’s display hooks, is a padlock. It’s a big one, the shackle wide enough to fit easily around the neck of the shaft, and it looks fairly new, no rust to be found as one would generally expect from such security measures. Much like the door, it isn’t locked, merely hanging off the oar, easily slipped off and offering no real protection from would-be thieves.

Or bored affluent 20-somethings, as it were. 

Hermes touches the lock, careful to not upset its tenuous balance, fighting the grin threatening to overtake his lips. He trails his fingers to the square body, humming as he shifts it to align it with the open shackle. A thought crosses his mind, however, as the hand in his jacket pocket alights upon the crumpled paper from earlier. 

He lets go of the padlock, patting himself down and pulling out the paper and the pen from his other pocket. Smoothing it out and tearing off the terrible list, he presses the paper to the wall of the cabin, writing a quick note on the free space. Once done, he slides it under the padlock against the smooth wood of the oar where it with be held down snugly. He moves the body to line up with the shackle, the distinctive click of it locking lost to water splashing against the hull of the boat outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of act 1. Insert disc 2.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *leans in real close to the mic* hey, tags have been updated so please be aware that we are fully in the M rating from here on out. Rating is subject to change later.

_Locked it for you. - H_

It started innocuous enough; Hermes following through on his promise and leaving Charon alone. Sure, he’d give the boat guy a wave as he jogged by. Sure, he’d see him out on his vessel at the wee hours in the morning and he’d pause to just watch for a moment or three. And, sure, he still picks the booth that aligns itself most with Charon’s shop so he can definitely not peek over there during the last hour of the place being open while he snarfs down whatever interests him on the menu that day. 

_Thanks. - C_

But he’s not bugging him, and has continued to not do so for a full week. Hermes deserves a pat on the back for that, or at least he thought he did when he brought it up to Eurydice, who swiftly whacked him over the head with a plastic menu, saying it's 'as good as you're gunna get, hon'. She was laughing about it though, and he's extremely grateful she, or anyone for that matter, has not seen him sneaking back onto the boat thrice in the week since his apology. He'd never hear the end of it, but he hasn't been able to stop himself either, with good reason.

_You’re not very good at keeping this thing locked. - H_

Cause each time he climbs back into Charon's boat, the padlock is unlocked, left swinging unsteadily on the oar. The paper is left under the shackle, and a response is written in the tight, functional script of someone who needs to be perfectly legible at all times. A pen is left conveniently within arm's reach.

_Sorry - C_

And Hermes, of course, did as one would expect. He writes his response, tucked it back under the padlock, clicked it in place, and left the boat. No harm, no foul. Nothing out of place, nothing taken, just a little bit of trespassing, but, to be fair and honest, Charon keeps responding, so is it really trespassing if he’s being baited into doing so?

_That’s a silly thing to apologize for. Are you going to keep answering, by the way? - H_

It probably is. Definitely is. Absolutely is, but he's not planning letting a little thing like technicalities get in his way.

* * *

Hermes wished he had appreciated the silence of the slow season, because waking up to someone’s five year old running down his hall screaming was not exactly how he wanted to become aware of his Wednesday morning. 

He groans, rolling over and blinking blearily at the sunlight coming in from under the curtains. Someone chastises the kid, the subsequent wailing grating on Hermes' exhausted ears as the child is dragged bodily away. He pulls the clock radio on the night stand closer to him, cursing as he reads the time, pressing a palm into one stinging sleepy eye. 

Unfortunate, as he is awake now, and, thankfully, there is a silver lining to such a rude and unwarranted alarm as he flops out of bed, waddling around his room to get ready for the day. He has a plan, you see. For the first time in probably ever, he’s got a plan for the day.

Shocking, he is aware. 

First off, get breakfast. No, wait, first off get dressed, which he is failing to do as he misses the legs his shorts and nearly goes sprawling to the floor in his haste. Second is to get breakfast from the continental. Third, is to send off applications to a few office jobs in the area. Nothing much, but just something, anything that gives him something to tell his father when the man eventually calls to see how his 'soul-searching' is going. You know, other than bothering the locals and spending an inordinate amount of time practicing sign language in the mirror for no real reason at all. 

And then, perhaps, a fourth on the list is seeing if Charon’s answered him again. Just a quick pop in, pop out, like the other three times now. Maybe. Not completely set in stone, but definitely a thought he’s entertaining for later and absolutely why it is so important he gets up early. 

So, it is with the utmost confidence that he grabs the tan folder from the side table, keeping the copies of his resume and the applications nice and crisp and unstained by any personal negligence, stowing it in the messenger bag he still hasn't returned to the lost and found he'd scrounged it from. He's getting good use out of it. Plus, it and the folder makes him feel more put together, which is something he can rarely claim as a state of being. It's the most pride he's felt in himself in a few months, having spent the better part of the week putting this all together in preparation for today. 

He’s got it all laid out; most efficient route, ending at the post office to drop off one application for a job in the city. Could give the old mailman a run for his money, considering he’s only been here less than a month and already understands the layout of the town better and more effectively that the person who's apparently lived here his whole life. There is also the consideration that Hermes is significantly younger and more spry and more capable of swiftly moving about than a 65 year old man with arthritis, but that isn't nearly as self-congratulatory as the first thing.

Either way, plan: clothes, already on, check that off, breakfast, drop off resumes and applications, allot for some chit chat time in case anyone wants an interview now, get back to the docks in time for Charon to open his shop, where he will be for an hour or so, and Hermes can check the note, cause if he gets there any later, Charon will be on the boat, and then Hermes will have to wait until later that night, and he doesn't want to wait; he wants know if Charon wrote back now-

Not that he knows the minutiae of Charon’s schedule or anything. That would be strange.

Or would it? He does the same thing everyday. Everyone in town probably know's his schedule by now. It's just, like the layout of the town, Hermes learned it significantly quicker.

Turning the corner to the dining area, after he waves merrily at the yawning desk girl, the hope Hermes had been running on until this moment drains from him as the general din of dozens of different conversations finally comes to his attention. The dining area had been rearranged, he vaguely remembers now, not having been paying attention yesterday as Hades briefed him and having been out most of the day, to an on-site restaurant. He forgot this would even be an issue, so used to the drowsy emptiness of the place, and the complimentary breakfast during the off season, and being so caught up in... everything... 

On top of that, there's people, lots of them, many seated waiting for the staff to take their orders, many more milling about waiting for a table. The sight is disheartening at best as Hermes stands stock still, frown deepening as the plucky newly hired hostess calls a table. Even the patio is full he realizes, shoulders slumping. 

Hermes just stands there for a moment, ignoring the older dad-looking fellow who keeps looking at him with a mounting suspicion as he goes through the list of possible sustenance avenues. Kitchen is right out; they'll be busy and will be going to Hades if Hermes so much as pops his head in there during the morning rush. Trying to skip the wait to the counter would be met by the lumbering mass that is his uncle, who is currently stalking the dining room, checking on guests and keeping watch for any errant nephews. Diner is probably packed as well, and as wonderful as Eurydice is, it's too much of a time sink to go there. He'd have to reroute everything-

“Here.” A banana and a bagel are being pressed into his hands, Achilles stepping to the side as Hermes takes them. At his visible confusion, Achilles tilts his head in indifference, patting Hermes’ shoulder. “Snatched some for the front crew; figured since you weren’t up yet, you’d rather skip the line.”

For all his put together appearance; the well groomed hair pulled back, his pressed uniform, shining shoes, there’s no hiding the bags under Achilles’ eyes or exhaustion in his shoulders. Even with the small charming smile and the friendly handsome face, there’s an uncomfortable tension to Achilles posture, the ill-fitting security uniform pulled taut over his back as if he’s teetering between dropping to the floor unconscious and remaining upright. At least Hermes isn't the only one having trouble sleeping.

“Oh," Hermes folds the napkin more over the bagel and the banana. "Cheers.” The hand on his shoulder tightens, Achilles leaning in to murmur.

“I’d take it outside, if I were you, sir. Your uncle is in a mood this morning.” Even as he says it, Hermes has a clear line of sight to Hades listening to a guest with a practiced service smile. His eyes dart to Hermes, an imperceptible twitch of distaste shadowing his strong brow before it is gone in a flash as he forces a laugh at the guest's story. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Achilles nods, pleasant smile never faltering, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before moving on. Hermes folds the bagel and the fruit behind his back, tipping two fingers off his brow at his uncle before quickly heading for the foyer.

Despite the front desk girl catching him momentarily to inform him of a scheduled phone call with his father in a day or so, he’s gotten back on track. 

* * *

Distraction is inevitable, and no amount of planning can properly factor in Hermes capacity to get completely enraptured by something wholly unimportant. On top of that, time was never his friend, and his ability to keep track of it is unfortunately co-morbid with his talent at losing every watch he's ever been gifted. He used to be good at keeping schedules, but those were generally enforced by an outside authority, either coaches or school or family. 

Hermes being is charge of Hermes generally ends in failure of some form or another because the fact of the matter is that Hermes is very good at getting Hermes off track. That bastard.

Try as he might, there’s too much going on in town now. Businesses, restaurants, hell, an oddity museum that were all closed over the winter are now open and inviting. Even the small park in the middle of Styx Beach has become home to a fair; carnival rides and games along with entrepreneurial retired tradesmen and woman with tents full of woodwork and art and jewelry and whatever you could think of crammed in on the green grass, filling in the barren area between the serviceable playground.

While in the morning, these are mostly empty, Hermes still finds himself wandering about, too curious to not look around given the opportunity. A few of the tradespeople greet him, recognizing him from his daily jogs and even with the clock ticking in the back of his head, he stops to chat. It's only at the cafe on the opposite side of town, drawn in by the smell of something more substantial than a bagel, does he realize how much time he's wasted, and by that point, seeing the time on the kitschy clock with the graphic of a rooster riding a bicycle, he's given up all pretense of making it to Charon's boat on time.

Crushing the wrapper for a breakfast sandwich that had been eaten in possibly four bites and tossing it in the waste bin near the diner, Hermes glances at the shop across the street, past the tourists peeking through the windows. Skelly is at the counter, ignoring customers as is his want and, as suspected, Charon is nowhere to be seen. Not only did anyone want to speak to him when he dropped off his applications, his opportunity to check the note has completely flown by. 

Great. 

Hermes crosses the street, resigning himself to returning to the hotel, maybe changing into his swimwear and hanging out at the beach, chatting up whoever looks his way until he sees a certain boat sail back into the docks. None of the people on the wooden path pay him any mind as he joins them, head down shuffling dejectedly. He casts a long look down to the docks, his self-irritation slowly fading as he does. And then he blinks. And then does so again, taken aback.

Charon's boat is still in it's spot, floating innocently among the water, easily seen at a distance as most of the other vessels have been taken out for such a lovely day. Making a noise, Hermes takes the short walk to the vessel, finding that the tall ghoulish man isn't anywhere to be seen. But he wasn't at the shop either, and if he's not there or here on a perfectly fine Wednesday when the sea is calm and the weather is clear, then- 

Wait... 

“Where’s Charon?” Skelly’s nose wrinkles as the door to the shop dings violently, Hermes all but throwing himself at it in his excitement. Of course, the balding man does not put down the magazine his face is currently glued to. 

“What do I look like," He starts when Hermes comes to a stop in front of the glass counter, directly in front of him. "His fuckin’ keeper?"

"No, but his employee, absolutely, given which, one would think you'd have an idea about your boss's location for the day." The tabloid lowers, Skelly glaring at him over his glasses. Behind Hermes, someone mutters something about pot roast, the clinking of a can being returned to its shelf following suit.

"What's it matter, anyway?" Skelly sniffs, licking his thump to flip the page, putting the magazine back up over his face and Hermes' nostrils flare, lips pursing. Thinking about it now, he isn't sure what he was expecting. "Thought you were over bein’ an insufferable creep.” 

“I am, or rather, I never was, but thank you for asking." His foot begins tapping, the low hum of the freezers starting to worm into his ears. "It’s just weird, isn't it? It's a lovely day, and you here, but his boat is all tied up and he's nowhere to be seen-” Skelly’s head slowly drifts up as Hermes speaks, brows raising in understanding, before a grin breaks out over his thin lips. "What?"

“You ain’t been down on the boardwalk lately, huh pal?” No, he hasn't, being busy for the past few days, but Skelly doesn't need to know that. When Hermes gives him a look, Skelly huffs, still toothily grinning. “Why don’t you take a walk and figure out where bossman’s been hangin’ out, yeah?” He puts the tabloid back over his face once again. “Besides, I got all these customers to deal with, anyhow.” 

He waves in the general direction of the two people browsing at the moment, neither of which seem intent on needing any sort of help in the near future, and Hermes chooses to not dignify that with a response, instead rolling his eyes. The want to reach over the glass counter and strangle the man with his bare hands is, at times, incredibley difficult to ignore, Hermes has come to learn.

* * *

The clock over Skelly's head read 11:14am as Hermes exited the general store, taking once again to the boardwalk behind the building. There's more people down this way as he walks along; old guys chatting about nothing, mothers dragging their children in and out of the various shops, people fishing off the raised wooden path into the gently rolling waters below. Hermes has maneuver carefully between all of them, just another tourist to this town, his aggravation draining away the closer to the beach he gets. 

It's comforting, having so many people around again. The general noise of conversations and enjoyment and life being brought to the otherwise dead town is nostalgic for years spent in crowded cities and busy private schools. With the sky above a cloudless perfect blue and the air a more than comfortably warm temperature, Hermes can forget for a moment the disappointment the morning had brought. 

It is only by chance as he is reveling in the lovely day and the people around, that he takes notice of one of the stands that lines the side of the boardwalk. Or maybe not so much up to chance considering the eye-catching nature of the rustic wooden signage and the tour boat waiting patiently all but directly in front of it. Of course, there's also the matter of the man standing gargoyle-esque inside the stand.

“‘Silent Ferryman’s Tour’.” Hermes reads aloud, squinting from the sun over head, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. On the sides of the stall are several informational signs: pricing and times for the tours, the route it takes, the sealife one could expect to see and when you would be most likely to see it. "Seems a little on the nose, doesn't it?" Charon says nothing as Hermes takes this all in, arms crossed over his chest, cigarette ever burning between his lips, expression unreadable, leaning against the back of the stall within which he is completely encased.

"How is that hat fitting in there?” Hermes wonders aloud before he can stop himself. “Sorry, that was-” Charon shrugs his apology off, neither offended nor interested in it. Hermes runs a hand through his hair, suddenly struck by the obviousness of it all. “So that’s how you’re making all your extra cash.”

Charon shrugs, letting one hand drift out of the window to flick the ash off his cigarette onto the boardwalk below. Hermes doesn't know much about the average pricing of tour boats in tourist traps, but at 7 bucks a ticket for adults and 3 for kids, Charon is probably taking as much advantage of the niche market as possible. And making a solid profit off of it. Plus, Hermes isn't seeing any other tour boats around.

"So did you chase off all the other competition, or is there that little a market for this sort of thing around here?" Charon makes a noise, hopefully an amused one, unfolding his arms and coming to the windowed counter of the stall. He gestures at Hermes to move, and he does so with a start as he notices the woman waiting patiently behind him, wearing a modest swimsuit with a towel wrapped neatly around her waist as a makeshift skirt.

She steps up, pays for her tickets, and Charon gives them to her. Simple transaction, no fuss about it as she stores them in a small leather handbag she’d brought with, but there's something that gives Hermes pause in her mechanical movements and ramrod posture. It's like she'd rather be anywhere than right here, having to interact with the tall stranger, having snatched her tickets swiftly and carefully so not to touch him. Nothing about it is overt, or obvious, but with little else to watch in the moment, it's hard to miss.

Charon goes back to his previous position, unaffected by the woman's passively unsettled behavior as she goes back to her waiting family near the boat, relief in her shoulders once she is back in their fold. 

“You know,” Hermes starts, standing close to the stand, but angled in a way so he can see if anyone else wants to actually buy tickets. “I’m shocked I never thought of this. Seems rather obvious now, what with your penchant for the sea and sailing in general, but maybe I misjudged your capacity to find a clever way to fill an empty niche for a profit. You do own the only general store around." 

Again, Charon says nothing, not with his hands, not even a grunt, but he also hasn't given any indication that Hermes should stop speaking, so he continues. 

"Probably should've thought you'd have some kind of side job during the busy months. This town appears to be full of people willing to take advantage of crowds, though it's not very surprising given half of them are retired and bored, probably. Did you know the hotel doesn't have it's continental breakfast available once the rooms start to fill up?"

"Not allowed in there." Charon signs after a moment with a grunt, before putting his thumbs in his pockets and long fingers resting on his upper thighs. Not that Hermes is looking. 

"Really?" Hermes continues, emboldened by the response. People continue to pass by behind him, some casting long glances to the stall, some even eyeing Hermes, but he isn't concerned with any of them. "I know Hades can be a right bastard, don't ever tell him I said that, and he isn't exactly quiet about his inability to make nice with anyone, but Nyx still has some hold over the hotel, so I can't imagine you being actually barred from entry..."

Charon half shrugs again at that, offering no additional information, but also keeping his hands unrestricted. 

"I- oh, sorry." Hermes steps aside as a man stops by the stall.

The transaction is similar, the tourist clearly discomforted by Charon, even going so far as the keep an extra foot between himself and the counter. Hermes has to bite his tongue to say nothing, the finding himself quite annoyed at the display. When man has his ticket and leaves, Hermes goes right back to chatting. 

They continue like that for the rest of the hour; Hermes talking about absolutely nothing as the sounds of merriment at the beach drift over to them intermixed with the slapping of water against the supports of the boardwalk and the random calling of gulls waddling about. Hermes would of course move for the tourists, silently observing their swift interactions with Charon, caught by how increasingly judgmental he gets over each one. As the hour turns over and a line has begun to form at the closed off ramp to the tour boat and Hermes has not coaxed more than two or three more words from the man, Charon closes his cash box. 

With little fanfare, he pulls a plastic covering over the window, the word 'closed' written in bold red letters over its faded white surface. Charon steps out of his stall from the door at the side, having to duck under the framing which is more than adequate for someone of Hermes' height but hilariously low for him. He dutifully locks the door behind him, cash box in hand, before stamping out the cigarette he'd been nursing that whole time.

As he is ready to say goodbye, it is to Hermes supreme shock that as Charon starts to pass him, he stops in front of Hermes, a ticket held loosely aloft in his direction.

“Ah, well, I-, hm, I don’t have any cash on me, sorry.” Hermes states, fumbling, but Charon shakes his head, the ghost of a smile on his scarred lips, holding the ticket out insistently.

How could Hermes say no to that? 

* * *

Boarding the tour boat, most of the passengers fill the bottom level, clearly wanting to be closer to the water, to view the landscape at a more human level. The seats in the lower area are white, clean plastic; comfortable for a short amount of time, but very convincing in getting the tourists up and to the railing to actually look around on the trip they paid for. Along the walls are reminders of the route, the length of the trip, and copies of the guides to what marine animals could be seen should the tourists be lucky or should the migration patterns line up. 

Hermes sees the draw in staying with the rest of the group, sure, but he also sees the toddler gearing up for a tantrum and the large man who’s already talking too loud to think around and Charon heading up to the helm at the upper level and he follows suit. A young couple are already on the sunny deck, back in the corner in their swimwear and their damp hair, quietly chatting as they sit pressed together on the bench. The other end closer to the helm seems less encroaching, and Hermes takes his place near the ledge to better see the ocean below. The boat rumbles to life under them, taking off smoothly from its resting place into the open waters. 

It’s beautiful as they continue out into the ocean proper. It really is. The charming vista the inlet makes from such a distance, the old disused yet charismatic lighthouse on it’s overlook and the picturesque rustic home that Hermes is fairly certain belongs to Nyx not too far from it, the quaint sparkling waters, and the tightly knit seaside town. Hermes can easily see why people would come here, even with the limited options available to them for entertainment, why they would continue to pay for a quiet tour boat just to drink everything in. 

Strange though, even as Hermes can admit this and as the tour boat slows so the people below can marvel over a whale breaching nearby, his gaze keeps drifting. Not to what one would think, not to the beautiful sights or the people on the beaches becoming more and more minuscule with every yard farther they traverse or the simple blue waves glittering from the clear sun above. These have no hold over his attention, cannot grab him like something else has. How could they?

There’s twittering beneath him, the couple from earlier having long gone down to the lower level to watch as another whale surfaces closer to the hull. Heavy footsteps approach and Hermes is swift to look away, pretending as if he hadn’t been watching the whole time as Charon takes a cigarette from its metal case, slipping it between his lips and lighting it in a smooth practiced manner. He comes to a stop by where Hermes is leaning on his forearms on the guard rail, rolling up the sleeves of his dark sweater to his elbows, the musculature prominent there even as he mimics Hermes posture. 

They stand there for what seems like hours in companionable silence, Charon casually smoking and gazing out into the open waters, impossibly warm even with the two feet between them, and Hermes doing everything in his power to not worm his way into closing that distance. Things are happening around them, the whales slapping tails against the ocean’s surface, the clicking of personal cameras, the chattering of excited children, yet Hermes does not process any of it, wary that he may vibrate out of his skin at any moment. He can feel words, inane and unimportant, fighting their way to be spoken, but Hermes is certain if he opens his mouth, he will say something profane. 

Why though, he has to ask himself, noting distantly how the slight breeze bring a bit of life to the generally pale, limp curls on resting on Charon's shoulders. Why are his palms sweating? Why does he jump at every minute twitch of Charon fingers where they are placidly hanging atop each other over the railing? Why can’t he stop himself from roving over the valley of Charon’s shoulders, vision climbing the mountains the blades make in Charon's hunched position, resting easily on his forearms? Why is he wondering, over and over, a ceaseless mantra of what would it be like if he were close enough to brush their arms together, if Charon would care or if he’d be tossed overboard for being so bold?

“Beautiful day.” Charon signs after a while, eyebrows knitted from the blinding sunlight, nodding in his own approval. This close, from this angle, Hermes can just see the man’s good eye from behind his sunglasses; it’s unremarkable brown color and the relaxed, unmarred pallid skin of the left side of his face, peacefully content as he continues his watch over the waters he has clearly laid claim to.

Hermes turns around, scalded as if he had happened upon something sacramental, resting on his elbows and casting his face to the endless blue sky above in an effort to not follow the long lines of his temporary companion’s legs. When he finds his voice, it is quiet, distant, uncharacteristic as he closes his eyes.

“Yeah. It is.” 

* * *

He can’t sleep. Not for the first time this week, and certainly not for the last.

The rest of the tour had been fine, Hermes mostly by himself as the couple had decided to stay on the lower level. Charon left him, obviously, having a job to do, yet Hermes still mourned the space he no longer filled. Without him, the rest of the tour stretched on, Hermes barely noting the landscape and the sights as his thoughts grew more and more turbulent. 

“Thanks, by the way.” Hermes had said, when they had returned to the boardwalk, stepping off the ramp and facing Charon. The rest of the tourists had already exited as Hermes anxiously waited to leave with Charon. “And I mean it, if you need any sort of compensation, I can go get some cash, be back in a flash, just say the wor-” He was stalled by a palm in the air. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Charon told him, that quirk of a smile back. He passed Hermes, closing off the ramp with a gate before heading back to his stall.

“Oh, right. Thank you!” Hermes called to him as he slowly came to the door of the stall. Charon waved him goodbye, and the moment he was distracted, fiddling with the lock and key, Hermes was off down the boardwalk, a different boat in mind. 

_Depends on the question. Try me - C_

Hermes rolls over onto his stomach, jamming his face into the pillow with a groan. Brain’s too energetic, too talkative, the hamster wheel squeaking and squeaking as the same inane thoughts run on repeat over and over again with no end in sight: 

Spent the rest of the day doing nothing again. He's supposed to be finding a job or figuring out something to go to college for, but, damn, he hated school. He could start a business, maybe? He doesn’t know how to do that. Know’s absolute bunk about business. He’d need to know more people, start schmoozing like his dad and his brothers do.

Well, lots of people around now, could make some friends, talk to some chicks-

_Try me._

What does he mean by that? Just start asking questions? Hermes has so many questions. He didn’t leave his response blank, obviously, but will it be received well? What if he goes back and the note is thrown out? That would be catastrophic; he’s having fun. It’s nice, like a secret, just between the two of them. A mystery, a story, something innocent to look forward to that gets Hermes heart pumping each and every time he climbs onto that boat more than any competition ever did.

And you know, he doesn’t want that to stop so soon. Charon’s nice. Hermes liked chatting with him, and being around him, even it’s kind of intimidating and his hands get sweaty, and he starts thinking strange thoughts about how his hands look wrapped around the wheel of his boat or his cigarettes or how warm he is, or how, in the right light, in the right place, he kind of, sort, maybe, looks hand-

Hermes gets up, needing to pace, to move. There’s too much energy, his muscles contracting like he needs to start sprinting around the room or they’ll tear themselves away from his bones, splitting in two if he doesn’t just _go_. His brain is on fire, switching between lines of thought like a broken film reel swapping between scene after scene, and try as he might, he can’t get a single one to stop for even a second. 

He could go for a jog, just around the block, but, no, he won’t. Night employees will yap to Achilles, who will mention it to Nyx, who will snipe at Hades about it, who will ask all kinds of annoying questions about why he needs to go running around the hotel grounds at midnight. And leaving the room in any respect is right out because he already took off his pants and they aren’t going back on in any respect. 

Could shower, but he already did that. Don’t want to waste too much water, uncle will probably get on him for that, and a cold shower would just wake him up more but, take a warm shower and he’ll-

He’s avoiding the obvious as he continues pacing over dirty clothes and discarded books, jittery, shaking his arms in half an attempt to tire them. He stops, casting a long look to his bed, hand already resting on his lower abdomen, pinky tapping the edge of his underwear. There’s warmth in his groin, a low thrum he’s been ignoring, thoughts too chaotic and body too twitchy for jacking off to really do any good, even if he wants to. Might take the edge off though…

Hermes has been kind of, maybe, possibly, avoiding touching himself for the past week? Not for any reason, really, certainly not because he can’t stop his brain from drifting to certain things as of late. Nor because he knows, deep deep in the recesses of his brain, once he gets into it, he’s not going to be able to stop himself from picturing certain things… or certain people…

He looks down, frowning, his pinky and ring finger having already wormed themselves under the band of his underwear, lightly stroking the skin and sparse hairs there. He licks lips, scratching at his eyebrow, letting out a perturbed breath as heat continues to pool between his legs the longer he stands by his bed, putting off the inevitable. It’s in his head now, you see, and once it’s in there, it’s not going to stop being in his head until he gets his hand around his dick, and even though that means he _knows_ without a shadow of a doubt he’s going to spend the whole damned time trying not to think of certain situations, he might as well just-

Hermes flops back onto the mattress, flat on his back, pulling the bunched up sheets out from under him before settling. His hand is already cupping himself through his meager clothing, a shiver of relief cascading over him as he covers his eyes with a forearm. There's footsteps in the room above him, but they fade away as he begins to caress himself in earnest.

Right, yeah, no need to linger or draw this out. It’s been almost a week. If he makes it quick enough, he won’t think as much, won’t allow himself to have so many thoughts. Cause that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Thinking?

He thumbs over the line of his dick, sighing in a final resignation before pushing down his underwear to halfway down his thighs, freeing himself to the tepid air of his hotel room. He’s still relatively soft as he takes himself in hand, but, with coiling anxious anticipation thrumming through him, this won’t be long. As he starts to move his wrist, slowly at first, hand dry on his skin, he has to concentrate to keep himself from picturing anything, simultaneously trying to get off as quick as he can yet not letting himself think of anything to speed up the process. 

His mind wanders, of course it does, as much as he tries to keep his focus on the feeling of his hand on his dick and the rasp of his dry palm. He licks his hand to help, finding the drag too distracting. Little better, hard to get into the rhythm of things if something's off. One time he had to stop a girl because the gaudy jewelry she was wearing was clinking too much. Couldn't imagine trying to touch himself wearing anything like that.

Does Charon take those rings off or does he just leave on? That'd be annoying, Hermes would think, picturing it now, Charon laying as he is, hand around his-

A frustrated noise ripples in his chest, hand stilling even as his cock jolts at the whisper of a thought. He waits, lightly touching his stomach, breath having begun its quickening, forearm beginning to tingle of the exertion of trying to be quick as possible. Removing the other arm over his eyes to lightly pinch his nipple in an effort to distract him once more, he stares at the ceiling, taking himself in hand again. 

His motions are perfunctory, inelegant. Thumb and forefinger in a loose grip around his cock, up, down, up, down, pressure slowly building, hips begin to follow his touch as he smooths over what precome has dribbled from the tip to help with the friction. His eyelids begin to drift shut as he gets back into the rhythm with a murmur of pleasure, abandoning his chest to grip the pillow behind his head.

There’s a disorganized rambling of imaginations running through his mind, nothing too interesting to latch onto. Memories of people he’s been with, fantasies he's indulged in too often, the errant want for someone to be here with him right now. Fuck, he’d give a lot right now for someone else’s hand to be on him. To grind into someone else’s fist, cock drool over someone else’s fingers.

He latches onto that, a stranger's fingers on him, pumping his dick faster and faster. Callouses he doesn't recognizes, a touch foreign enough to be off-putting yet wholly addicting, a murmur of praise in his ear. Maybe someone who's hands are rougher than he's used to, stronger, larger than his own, pinning Hermes to them as he is worked over. He is all but gnawing on his lip, picturing it, desperation reaching it's peak as he teeters over the precipice, the image of his cock begin enveloped in that wide palm, gold bands glinting in the sparse light of his room.

Would he even be able to see the head of his dick if it was Charon’s hand, and not his? 

His climax hits him like a train, swift and unforgiving, biting his lip as he squeezes himself through it, his toes curling in the sheets. The muscles in his abdomen flutter as he comes down, huffing into his arm, groaning at the after image of his dick encased in a massive hand burnt into the back of his eyelids. As the rushing in his ears and the hammering of his heart subsides, guilt, heavy and gripping settles into the pit of his stomach, the last dregs of his orgasm washing away into a horrid self-awareness as he lay there, too hot and too relaxed to do anything about the mess on his skin. 

He stares at the ceiling. His mind is quiet. He still can’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh cock


	8. Chapter 8

It’s not-

He isn’t-

Hermes wipes a hand over his face, somewhere between sick to his stomach and ready to fall back asleep at any moment. He slumps in the filigree metal chair of the patio, flicking the off-white coffee mug sat in front of him on the cloudy glass table, listening to the dull thump lose itself to the crashing waves and the wind. He’d managed to get a seat today, no plans needing succinct timing other than a call with his father later tonight. 

But that's a whole other story. 

The sky is a dull grey, rain being on the horizon for this afternoon, and the ocean is choppy today, a warning having to be put up in the windy March morning of a potentially dangerous tide. No one is outside with him, having had better foresight for the coming winds than he, but Hermes is nothing if not stubborn in his wallowing. Even with the strong breeze, he's been adamant to sit here; alone, hunched down in his chair, berating himself for having no sense of self-control.

Last night...

It doesn’t mean anything. Hermes bounces his leg, tired, annoyed, ready to fling himself into the ocean this time. He gets fixated on things sometimes. It’s fine. He’ll get over it sooner or later. 

Get bored, like he always does. 

And it's not like, having any interest in men is a revelation. He’s fooled around once or twice, in locker rooms, at a party. It happens. And there have been guys he’s looked fondly upon, more than what he could say just for a friend or someone to look up to. It’s fine. Who cares? Nothing came of those, anyways.

The waitress comes by, coffeepot in hand, the question at hand doing well to hide her agitation at the wind blowing the loose hair from her messy bun around. She’s a pretty girl, and if Hermes were in a different sort of way, he’d try his luck. Instead, he puts his palm over the half full mug, thanking her for the thought, and she eagerly trots back inside, leaving him alone again.

He likes women plenty, thank you very much. Any feelings his fellow man inspires are superfluous, unnecessary. He just... has to ignore it sometimes. 

Hermes isn't going to be able to look at Charon for a while, he thinks, ears already reddening at the thought of the man beholding him and somehow eking out exactly what Hermes was getting up to last night. And Charon probably isn't out on his boat today, given the weather, so feasibly he could've come up with some excuse to chat with the man at his shop, maybe get a few more precious words from him. See if he's responded to his question yet...

He slides even further down into the metal chair, grumbling to himself as he wishes he had a massive hat to pull over his pink face. What is he doing? He's been here a month with nothing to show for it save for a few applications, a lot of money wasted, and a schoolyard cru- obsession with a man two heads taller than him who has a face that probably met the bad end of a blowtorch or something.

God, what is he going to tell his father tonight?

“There you are.” It’s an effort to not jump at the deep baritone of his uncle suddenly coming to fruition right behind him. Instead, he casually takes a sip of his long cold coffee, making a face at that. Probably should've taken the top up.

“Ah, yes, you know me, dear uncle.” He straightens in his chair before looking over his shoulder with a cheeky smile, batting his eyelashes at the looming face glowering at him. “Hiding from your ever errand running reach out in the open, explicitly while dining in your restaurant and, wait for this, it’s quite clever on my part, with your wait staff.” He folds his arms behind his head. “It’s a wonder you found me.”

He can almost hear the twitch under his uncle’s eye. Good. 

“Unfortunately, I have little time for your chirping today.” Hades bellows, coming round to the side of the table so Hermes has to actually look at him. He's in a suit today, like always, but a nicer one that actually fits his overly broad frame instead of hanging loosely off his waist. Impressive for his uncle; now if only something could be done with the beard and the glaring. "I have several meetings coming up here shortly so I need to ask a favor of you." 

“Ask?" Hermes rocks onto the chair's back legs, kicking his shoes onto the table just to see Hade's fist tighten at his side. "Color me surprised. You aren’t going to demand it or, even more likely, threaten my money situation? Are you even my uncle?” 

“If it weren’t for the sensitive nature of this request or the time constraint," Hades pulls out a seat, sitting in it with all the elegance of a lame horse. "You can be assured that there would be no room for your general lack of work ethic-”

“-which is perfectly adequate, in the right circumstance-”

“As it stands, I’m willing to make a deal should you agree to take something to Nyx-” 

“Are you not allowed to be within 500 feet of her house like father or-?”

“If you allow me to speak without further question.” Hermes rolls his eyes, before putting his feet back to the floor and letting the front legs of the chair hit the patio again.

“You have my utmost undivided attention.” Hades glowers even harder, if that was possible.

“I doubt that excessively.” He sets down a little prescription bottle on the patio table and Hermes reaches out to pick it up automatically, listening to the tell-tale sound of pills being rattled against the plastic orange container. In front of him, Hades now leans back, folding his pale meaty hands over his suit jacket while Hermes continues to read the prescription label, trying to read behind where the name has been blacked out. “Reviewing your funds, you only have enough to stay until the beginning of April. Possibly less considering your frivolity at eating around town."

Something coils horridly in the pit of Hermes' stomach as Hades stares unceasingly at him, a certain cruel humor sparkling in his eyes as Hermes fight to not put his head in his hands. Instead, he schools his face, even as a cold dread seeps into his spine, setting the bottle back on the table near the middle, abundantly more nauseous than he'd felt prior to Hades' arrival.

Shit. Shit. He hadn't paying attention again. He thought he had at least another month, not two weeks. He's done fuck all. 

“Go on.” He keeps his voice placid, calm, despite begging being his immediate next option.

“I am also aware that your father will be reaching out to you this evening. As such, part of the deal with you being here was that during any check-ups, I would provide my own observations on your progress.” 

"Of course you are." Hermes mutters, shaking his head and sitting back, crossing his arms over his chest. His father had to keep track of his investment somehow. "I don't mean to be rude, but aren't you on a time constraint?" There's that harumph noise his uncle makes and he pushes the prescription bottle closer to his nephew.

“Take those to Nyx, and I may consider the idea of requesting more funds for your stay here.” Hermes brow knits together, not quite sure if he heard Hades correctly over the crashing waves and the screaming gulls but as he searches his uncle's face for any sign of jest, he finds nothing more than the stony seriousness he's come to expect from the man.

“That seems..." Hermes clicks his tongue, one of Hades' bushy brows rising impatiently. "Far-fetched. What’s your game, dear uncle?” With a huff and the horrific scrape of metal chair legs on wood, Hades stands, brushing non-existent dirt from his suit jacket.

“Every question you ask," He digs around in his pocket and Hermes watches with some trepidation. "Is another day shaved off what I will be requesting for you.” He pulls his hand back out into the open, the keys to the company car being placed on the table with a clink, along with a five dollar bill. “I will re-add it if you get your haircut before you humiliate me further in front of Nyx and the rest of my clientele.” 

Hades begins to walk away, and Hermes touches his hair self consciously. It’s not that bad, a little shaggy maybe. Definitely doesn’t deserve the disdain in which Hades mentioned it, but he’s not going to complain about a free haircut. Or the possibility of more time.

With only the slightest moment of hesitance, Hermes stands, grabbing the keys and the money, stuffing the latter into his own pocket before all but jogging past his uncle and tossing the keys his way. 

“I’ll walk, thanks!” He calls behind him, finding the utmost joy in the sound of Hades’ cursing and the keys hitting the patio floor. 

* * *

It’s one of the few times he’s regretted not having the fortitude to take the car. The wind is picking up, and though it is not chilly, it is wet and whistling and the longer he’s out in the open, the more his ears start to hurt. No tourists are out on the streets or the sidewalks today, either having gone to the city or hunkered down inside their hotel rooms, leaving Hermes alone in the once again quiet town. Even the barbershop was empty; no one interested in a haircut today save for the one person either brave enough or gullible enough to be out today. 

And Hermes is quite certain it's the second. He'll do any stupidly tedious task if it means someone else will help beg Zeus for an extension on his 'vacation'. 

Given the nervous thoughts running rampant on the jaunt over and the last week of poor sleep, its no wonder he nearly falls asleep in the red, well-worn barber chair. The cozy warmth of the homely salon lulling him into a doze as the middle-aged, egg shaped man twitters over the grey outside and is chastised by his daughter over not putting in some kind of order for a St. Patrick’s Day get-together. Hermes’ doesn’t quite hear much of it, just random snippets of words and images and the soft hum of country crooning from the radio in the corner as he blinks in and out of awareness, each flutter of his eyelids showcasing more and more of his hair being delicately shaped into something more acceptable in the long mirror on the wall in front of him. 

By the time he’s all done, he feels oddly refreshed, the chorus of anxiety in his head oddly dim, though a tad humiliated for napping the entire time. The barber has a good chuckle over it as Hermes pays and apologizes. 

“Not the first time he put someone to sleep talking to them!” His daughter calls from the back, a good natured dig to which her father fails to throw a hand towel at her.

To say Hermes’ immediately misses the comfortable quiet atmosphere of the place when he steps back outside would be a gross understatement as his inner ears begin to ache from the wind and the few hairs that fell into his shirt begin to itch. 

Right. 

His dad. 

What the hell is he going to tell him?

'Oh, hello father. Been having a right time here on the beach. I've done exactly fuck all with the money you've so graciously lent me and, if you could please be so kind, lend me a bit more?'

He's certain that'll go over great. He puts it out of his mind for the time being, focusing on just getting to his destination without being blown into the next state.

Nyx’s home is on the other side of town, almost in need of its own zip code for how out of the way it is by foot. It takes a good while to get there, having to pass the Sisyphus’ garage, and turn down a gravel road that rises into a gentle hill, lined in old hickorys and budding maples that shiver and bow to the gale. Their tight congregation and deafening rustling give way to a more open, artificially leveled plateau as the rocky path morphs suddenly into an immaculate concrete driveway.

There, Erebus Manor reveals itself beyond the collection of trees: an old colonial mansion that overlooks the sea upon its hill, one of the lingering reminders of what was the old family’s dominion over the town. Hermes approaches, his leg beginning to cramp from the walk and the last stretch of the hill yet he picks up his pace, ready to be done with this errand as he passes the little off-shoot that leads to the matching garage and it’s generous parking space. He is careful to stay on the path, not expecting Nyx to take kindly to him stepping in the blossoming landscaped garden that lines the way. 

In the daylight, when the sky is clear and the sun alights itself upon the brick manor with its white trim and columned porch, it must be a sight to behold, one of warmth and welcome. Here, today, in the gloom of an unfortunate mid-March day with the grey overcast dulling the clean red of the brickwork, the house is ominous, haunting, a lonely building on a lonely hill purposefully above and away from the rest of the town. Each creaking, careful tiptoe up the three steps to the porch landing is both damning and thunderous, warning Hermes away.

Knocking the door, Hermes is struck by how very out of place he feels, standing alone on that porch. He’s no stranger to this kind of grandiosity or significance, hell, his private school was older than this house, but there’s something alienating about the knowledge this is Nyx’s home, like he shouldn’t even dare step on her drive let alone presume he can touch her door. Hades is lucky he has no interest in leaving Styx Beach yet, otherwise he'd be back down that road to the hotel in a heartbeat.

The clean white door opens slowly, revealing Nyx standing in her entry way. She's less formal today, less cultivated within her own abode, though there's still an air of self-importance to the dark day dress she wears and in the basic yet refined curls to her hair as though she'd rather be caught dead instead of without her makeup and finery. Of course, the pleasant yet bemused tilt to her mouth falls into the shadow of a frown as she takes in her caller.

"Hermes." She states after a pregnant pause, allowing Hermes to continue to be assaulted by the gale and he's starting to see the resemblance Charon has to her in the way they both can make one squirm with one long look. "What a pleasant surprise." It is clear in her tone and the way her nose twitches as she takes in all of him that it is in fact the opposite of pleasant. "You've gotten a haircut."

“Hello, thanks, I think, uh-" Right. No need to draw this out. Hermes plunges his hand into his bag, dread creeping into him as he doesn't immediately find the pill bottle. “Just here to drop off something, once I find it...” What has he even been putting in this bag? “Here we are.” Grateful as his fingers enclose over the plastic, he pulls it from the confines of the bag. He holds it aloft, loosely and open in his palm, trying a placating smile as he stares at the trimming over Nyx's shoulder. “Hades couldn’t be bothered, so he sent me, as he does.”

Nyx’s brows lift possibly a micrometer, gaze lingering on the bottle being presented to her. She takes it from him, her immaculate manicured fingers wrapping around the orange plastic, contrasting with the deep purple of her nails, careful so as to not actually touch Hermes. He lets his arm drop lamely, taking an instinctual step back as he lets out the breath he’d been holding since she’d reached for his delivery. 

“Zagreus’ new prescription.” She breathes after some contemplation, the hard line of her forehead softening. Hermes perks up at that, attention shifted, the wind whistling through the trees. “Must have slipped my mind when I gathered him up this morning.”

"Must've missed you at the hotel earlier, then." He means it to be polite, conversational, yet her fingers tighten around the pill bottle, crow's feet deepening as she sniffs.

“Yes. Must have." To his surprise, she steps aside, beckoning. "If you could, come inside for a moment. I would request you take something back for me.” 

Why not? It's not like he's got any other plans.

She lets him through the door, indicating he wait at the entrance by the coat rack as she glides away down the main hall dotted with paintings and photos in expensive elegant frames. It is a relief to be inside the warm building, however hostile it may be, and out of the wind. There’s an underlying waft of lavender under the clean scent of an overly well-kept home, something lemony having been recently used on the deep brown polished wood floor. The sounds of a child playing echo from down the hall Nyx disappeared and if Hermes peeks around the half drawn curtain that must be used to obscure the living area of the house from tourists, he can see the back of a couch. 

Hermes shuffles his feet on the doormat, hands balled in his jacket pockets, shifting from side to side as he waits. It's hard not to get twitchy, bored, the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere nearby becoming increasingly annoying. Eyes wandering and staving off the harrowing want to find Nyx, he peers down a shorter hall to his right, seeing more picture frames and the windowed door at the end. Checking that Nyx is not coming back his way, Hermes shuffles to that entrance, finding a warm brown, succinct script stating 'historic wing' and a reminder of the visitation times. The door is locked, of course, so he focuses his attention to the well cleaned photos and their recently dusted frames on the walls nearest it. 

There’s a print of an artistic rendition of the house from 1852, looking very much like the real thing as far as Hemes could tell, a few black and white photos from various times and with various people… nothing too interesting, but there is one frame in particular that catches Hermes eye. It’s an innocuous picture set at first, a collection of photos of the house during three different times. The leftmost is older, with clear grain and the coloring off even if the actual presentation is well centered. The house here seems older that the one he just walked into, the roof clearly in some for of disrepair, the brick in need of a wash, porch bowing under general pressure of gravity and time. The last photo shows the current state of the place not ten years ago; pristine and well-refurbished, white trim gleaming in the morning sun. 

It’s the middle one that has his heart stuttering in his throat as crisp, even footsteps signal Nyx’s return. 

“An unfortunate time in our history here.” She states, coming to a stop next to him. Hermes forces himself to look away from the still smoldering blackened home presented in the newspaper clipping from 16 years ago that occupies the middle space. He spares a glance to the dusty black plaque underneath where ‘restoration completed thanks to a generous donation by the Olympus family’ is inlaid in gold lettering, but that too he finds hard to look at.

“Why do you keep the pictures around?” He mumbles, staring down at the polished floor, guilty for having snooped.

“It is easier to have this to deter too many questions from visitors who heard of the...accident.” There’s a pointed nature to her words, staring Hermes down, who swallows the dozens of questions he had been about to fumble over. “In any case, the photos and the plaque were placed well after certain parties had moved on from this house.”

He is gently and yet forcibly ushered back to the front door, taking one last look at the middle photograph, swallowing the dryness on his tongue down. An envelope is handed to him as he crosses the threshold back into the gloomy outside, something crisp and professional from a medical office in the city. He doesn't examine it too much, stowing it away as Nyx sees him off. 

"Your uncle will be in need of that for his billing. Unfortunate, as the postman delivered it here by mistake." She tells him airily. Hermes nods, not really listening, a buzzing having started in his ears, and he mumbles a distant goodbye, making to leave.

The wind has stopped, the meticulous arrangement of the garden stagnant as the sky grows dark on the horizon over the ocean behind the house. There’s a quality to the air as though time has stopped; the birds have disappeared, hiding away from the coming gall, a silence in the wake of their absence that presses on the ears like cotton balls. He can almost taste the coming rain as he fiddles with the metal loop the leather strap of his bag is attached to, head down and body moving. 

“Hermes.” At some point, he must have taken the steps from the porch to the concrete walkway. He stops, facing Nyx in all her finery on her porch, something soft and genuine to her eyes as she looks down upon him. “I do hope you’re enjoying your stay in town.” 

“Yea- I mean," He has no idea how to speak to Nyx, if he's being a twat or what. He wasn't ready for any kind of sincerity from her. "Yes, ah, thank you for….allowing me to do so, given everything between you and my-” He nearly chokes on it the next word, redirecting himself. “Given everything. In general. I mean.” 

“I would be remiss to ignore that it has done you some good.” Hermes makes a noise at that, not sure what to think. This is quite nice of Nyx, rather out of the blue. “Though my last warning still stands should you get too comfortable as is the want of the men in your relation.” 

And there it is. 

“Absolutely, ma’am." Hermes assures, waving himself off. "Wouldn’t dream of it! Nice and uncomfortable and ever vigilant and all that.” She bows her head in acknowledgement, turning her back on him to re-enter her home.

With a loud exhale and a shake of his head, Hermes starts walking away, assured Nyx has most certainly cemented the opinion that he is, in fact, absolutely touched in the head, when a rumbling interrupts his internal chastisement. Not the rumbling of thunder, or the return of the wind, but of a car heading up the long drive to the manor. Sure enough, as Hermes pauses halfway down the drive to stare down that laid concrete, a long gray car pulls off into the parking area in front of the garage.

Charon exits the car, grabbing a paper bag from the passenger side seat before shutting the door, and locking it, and Hermes’ ears have to be turning pink at this point as the man lumbers his way round the bend, clearly intent on the house. He’s wearing a nice dark button up today, top three undone yet it is still tight over his chest under an inordinate amount of gold chains. There’s no cigarette today and Hermes has never seen anyone straddle the line between business casual and relentlessly gaudy as this man is right now. 

Despite that, he looks...nice, Hermes can admit, becoming very interested in his trainers very suddenly when he sees a tic of mild surprise in Charon’s otherwise stony face at the sight of Hermes here and now. He was nowhere near ready to see Charon quite yet. His hands are already sweating, a background chorus of guilt picking up in volume in his thoughts the closer Charon comes.

He’s going to know. There’s no way he isn’t. He’s going to take one look at the heat rising to Hermes face and know-

“Nice haircut.” It’s signed in the most nonchalant manner as they pass, Hermes just barely catching it out of his periphery. It’s polite, barely even a compliment, and more of a personal acknowledgement that he’s paying the least amount of attention to someone with which he regularly interacts. It is ultimately a meaningless platitude. 

This knowledge does not stop Hermes from making an ass of himself as he finds his tongue very much tied at the moment, hand flying to hair. 

“What? Yeah- um, thanks!” He shouts back in a higher pitch than usual after fumbling with himself to say anything. If Charon hears it, he’ll never know as he and his mother disappear into the house, the door closing succinctly behind them. 

Alone again, Hermes slaps a hand to his forehead, gritting his teeth and swearing. He scrubs his palm over his face, having gone pink again, running a hand through his hair and kicking a loose bit of gravel into the landscaping. 

It's going to be a long walk back into town.

* * *

He thought about taking a run to clear his head, but with the wind and the spattering of rain coming on, Hermes decided against it. Plus, he's not really dressed for it. Next the idea of going to the diner was floated, but, no, really he just wanted to listen to Eurydice complain about the tourists, but she’d be busy with the afternoon rush and he'd spend the whole time alone, watching Charon's shop for the man to walk back. And if he did that, then he'd want to talk to the man, and if he talked to the man, he'd ask something inappropriate like if his burns still hurt or if he hates the pictures on the walls in his mom's place or-

Next, the library was a possibility, but he got halfway there before realizing why that was even an option, and why in the world would he want to spend a few hours combing over newspaper records from 16 years ago? 

Nevermind, he knows why, but that’s stepping over the line between casual curiosity and invasion of privacy, so, with a certain reluctance, Hermes jogged his way back to the hotel just as the first splutter of water began to come down, loud and obnoxious on the empty cracked roads. 

And now he’s here, in the foyer, having claimed the couch once again, awaiting a phone call and wallowing in his own pit of melodramatic anxiety. His head is too full, too many disparate worries and new information bouncing around to really concentrate on anything but the steady downpour outside and the general din of the hotel patrons. Minutes pass, hours trudge on.

It's only a matter of time before his call, but at least he's got Hades on his side for the moment. He hopes. God does he hope.

“Not often I see you lounging in the foyer.” Hermes strains his neck to see who's bothering him in his silent yet public loitering. Achilles is standing over the back of the grey couch in the foyer, mildly amused at Hermes current position, which was, to say, upside down, legs hooked over the wooden frame and head dangling off the cushion. There has been exactly one man who frantically asked the front desk girl if ‘that guy was allowed to do that’ in the ten minutes he’s been like this, to which she replied an emphatic ‘kinda’. “Everything go alright during your delivery?” 

Does Hades tell everyone he’s the errand boy, or is Achilles that astute of a security guard? He hopes the man doesn’t expect a real answer, because the precise concoction of ‘oh God, what’s wrong with me?’ and ‘it’ll be fine, nothing to worry about, everything will be fine’ and 'I have no idea how to convince Zeus that wasting more money on this glorified soul-search when I can't be bothered to actually do anything' is not easily translated to the English language. Or any, for that matter.

“Yes,” It's more of a grunt as he rights himself, blinking as the blood rushes down from his head. Thankfully, Hades is in his office at the moment, also awaiting Zeus' call, otherwise Hermes' would've been reamed for his blatant tomfoolery. “Went absolutely perfectly fine. Couldn’t have gone better. But now that you mention it, if you’d be willing, just go ahead and end me now, please, and thanks.”

Achilles huffs in a small laugh, leaning on his forearms over the wooden back of the couch.

“Might be a bit dramatic." There's something disarming about Achilles, Hermes has found, in his genuine interest and his open expression. "Besides, I would think your uncle might be bit upset over your untimely passing.” 

“Oh, I highly doubt that." Hermes says, settling into the corner, arms crossed over his chest. From down the hall, a name an be heard being called for the restaurant, the dinner rush having begun. "He’d be quite grateful to have the room back, he would. Could sell it for more, probably. I think. I'm not sure how much he's charging me, now that I think about it...” 

"Hey," They both turn to the front desk, where the new guy manning it is beckoning Hermes. "Hades says to get in office." Achilles pats the wood trim, straightening and wishing Hermes good luck as he stands, the knot in his gut that's been lying in wait now constricting horrendously. 

It only worsens as he walks behind the front desk, hands slipping on the doorknob to his uncle's office.

This back room is nothing new. Hermes has dipped in here from time to time for various things, scavenging the pristine dark wood desk for whatever he needed. While it’s tight quarters and bare walls were generally locked, Hermes had found that a spare key for Nyx and the front staff had been hidden on top of the molding above the door, an avenue of entry he's employed several times during his stay here.

Hades waves him in, face pinched as if in pain as he continues listening to the over-loud voice of his brother on the receiver, indicating the bare grey chair across the desk from him. Hermes takes a seat, the thin cushion and steel frame of the office chair doing nothing to put him at ease, straining to hear what his father is going on about. His chest is tight, stomach clenching and unclenching and heart hammering as he waits with what patience he can muster. 

"Yes... mhm..." Hermes bounces his leg, the chair squeaking from the force, but he is halted as Hades glares his way. A thought occurs, and Hermes digs the envelope from his bag, sliding it across the desk to which Hades picks up with recognition. "Hm! Ah, yes, well, Hermes has arrived-"

He pulls the phone from his face with a grimace, holding it out to Hermes. The handset is warm from Hades paws, the receiver even more so against Hermes’ ear. With a short steadying breath, he speaks. 

“Evening, father.” Despite the rolling unease in every facet of his being, Hermes' voice is smooth, unaltered. A facade he's mastered over the years.

“Hermes, my boy!” The authoritatively booming, jovial nature of Zeus’ voice is smothering at the best of times. Here, it is down right suffocating. In the month since not hearing from his father, Hermes had forgotten how little he missed it. “How is that old beach treating you?” 

It’s a game, really, telling his father anything. There’s a delicate line one has to walk across. Few would think of Zeus as a shrewd man, but they, and their professional standing, would fare better if they did. One errant misstep, one little sentence with one too many words, and the businessman will have more than enough strings to pluck at to get you to do whatever he pleased. 

“Good, actually.” Hermes settles on, as nonchalant as he can, picking at the side of his thumb with his nail. “Lovely weather we’ve been having, well, save for today. Bit rainy right now but other than th-”

“Glad to hear it.” Zeus cuts him off, not even the least bit interested. Figures. “Hades said you’d been coming out of your shell more, some of that spunk found its way back into you.” 

Hermes gives his uncle a queer look, who isn’t paying any attention as he opens the envelope. 

“I suppose.” He answers slowly, Hades pulling out the bill or whatever from the envelope. “Been a bit more sociable.”

“Making friends, I would hope. And finding yourself a girl.” Hermes frowns at that, biting off the bit of skin he's scratched off from his thumb. His leg is going off again, but Hades seems too distracted to care now. 

“Yeah, trying, as much as I would think one can.” Could he even call anyone a friend here? He likes speaking to Eurydice, but he couldn't tell if the feeling is mutual, or if she just likes his business. Skelly, no, clearly, and Charon... “Getting myself in order, one step at a time.” 

“I should think so!" It's never been easy to tell if anything Zeus says is sincere or carefully chosen flattery to lower your guard. In this case, it matters little. "Sounds like you’re getting back into the swing of things. Calling people, applying for positions, getting out there and feeling the fields as they say…” 

Strange wording aside, Hermes has done exactly one of those things, and probably poorly at that. He hasn’t picked up a phone since he got here save for a call from the front desk girl to tell him at 6 in the morning about getting the shoes he left in the foyer before Nyx got in. Hades still isn’t looking his way, unaffected and bored as he shuffles through some paperwork, hasn't seen the bewildered expression Hermes is currently throwing his way.

How hard was he shilling for Hermes?

“Yes,” Hermes says after a moment, psyching himself up, confidence beginning to quell the anxiety running like static in his veins. If there’s one thing he can do, it’s bullshit, “Applied around. Called a few people in Hades’ phone register, as you know, quite a large list, but I’ve started on a few, small business owners, insurance agents, a boat...guy…” 

“And what have you done with all this?” 

It’s innocuous, calm, said in that friendly, even tone. It’s such a natural follow up to Hermes’ claims, and had he not known his father, he would mistake it for authentic, careless interest. Hermes swallows, fingers tightening on the burning plastic of the handset, mouth dry, that little bit of self-confidence dashed away.

“I… have…” He’s fumbling, the words that poured from him seconds ago, so easy like a well-run river, having been dammed, halted. What was he saying? What would he be doing? Hades has paused in his shuffling, clearly listening even as he pretends to read his papers. Hermes has to say something, anything, his father remaining silent, just waiting for Hermes to slip up. “Have been waiting to hear back from some applications. And looking to schedule an internship with a promising per-prospect.”

The stretch of nothing that follows has him twitching, not even the sound of Zeus breathing can be heard with he takes in Hermes' claim. Oh God, what if he contradicted Hades? The application part isn't a lie, but everything else...

“Hm! Well, it is something, I suppose.” Hermes might just melt into the floor with relief, letting his head fall back and exhaling as silent as he can. “As much as it pains me to say it, I believe my brother is correct in the assessment that your time there is doing you well." 

"Yes, absolutely," Hermes babbles, sitting up straighter. "Wouldn't want to leave now just when I've started making progress." 

"No, no, I think you'll do fine with some more time away from home. I expect great things from you, my boy." Hermes frowns at that, but let's it pass. "Let Hades know he should be expecting a wire in a few days. Now, I must tell you, your brother-"

They talk for a few more minutes, or rather Zeus does, updating Hermes on various things within the family, but Hermes isn't really listening, and he hands back the handset forcibly when his father finally bids him farewell. Once its been returned to its dock, Hermes slides down in his seat, boneless, reassured, staring at the ceiling as he laughs to himself. 

"Enough of that." Hades growls, nostrils flaring by the display. "Considering the amount of work you have to do, this celebrating seems quite premature." 

"Oh, let me have this." Even still, Hermes stands up, stretching. "Should be getting a wire here in a few days, for what it's worth."

"Hm." Hades turns away from him, picking up a pen to scratch something into a ledger. "If he listened to me, you should have enough until the end of April. Hopefully this will put some fire under you to stop meandering around town." Hermes nods, the distinct impression he is now officially intruding on Hades' space coming over him. He makes for the door, but not before pausing. 

"Oh, Hades." His uncle grants him an impatient look and Hermes scratching at the back his freshly shorn hairline. "I-... thank you, by the way." Hades harumphs, sniffing and going back to writing in his ledgers. Hermes opens the door, assuming himself dismissed, nearly missing his uncle's muttered rebuttal: 

"Don't squander it this time, Hermes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who keeps writing these long ass chapters? absolutely unacceptable


	9. Chapter 9

_Depends on the question. Try me - C_

_Alright, why aren’t you allowed into the hotel? - H_

* * *

_Helped Hades’ ex-wife get the hell out of Dodge. He didn’t like that too much - C_

_Hades was married? He never told anyone. - H_

* * *

_Not for very long - C_

_Did you and her have a thing or something? - H_

* * *

_She was a good friend of the family. Needed a way out. - C_

_That was very kind of you. Have you ever been married? - H_

* * *

_Do I look like someone who’s been married? - C_

_I dunno. You’re not so bad_

Hermes frowns at that, low noise bubbling in his chest as he draws a line through the last part a few times. Seems like he’s insinuating something, which he isn't. Not even a tiny bit. 

The last thing he needs is Charon even getting an iota of a thought that Hermes is in some kind of weird headspace about him. Complimenting him, even in such a casual vague way is too...well not forward, he’s not trying to seduce the man, but perhaps a step beyond what their extremely one-sided conversations has cemented themselves as. Sure, Hermes has talked to him a few times, a dozen times, maybe, randomly, throughout the past two weeks, popping into the shop or stopping by the stand or the boat, spouting off whatever nonsense comes to his head in between running himself ragged with trying to find some form of temporary income…

But that does not warrant any kind of admittance on Hermes’s part that he finds the man nic- agreeable to look upon. And it never will.

He taps the pen against his chin before he puts another line through it for good measure. Should be good enough, though it is dark and he's kind of going by the moonlight at this point.

 _I dunno._ _~~You’re not so bad~~ _ _Loads of people get married. Never know. Got any kids? - H_

He reads it over, unsatisfied, but it’ll have to do. This shouldn't be too big of a gamble if Charon was willing to answer about any past marriages, Hermes would think. There's always that element though, that possibility, that at any time Hermes will try the door to the cabin and find himself locked out. It make him smile though, furtively, secretly, whenever he touches the handle and finds it unlocked, makes his pulse race and his stomach flutter and dear God, he needs a hobby.

Hermes presses the duct tape back to the white fiberglass wall above the oar, the padlock long abandoned as the means for keeping the note in place. It still hangs off the oar, uselessly locked around the shaft, which Hermes has moved around from time to time as it can be easily slid off. The lock always finds its way back, of course, unmentioned by anyone involved, and, tonight, Hermes leaves it as is. He hasn't figured out exactly how he's going to sneak it into the cash register in Charon's store yet.

It’s getting late, the gentle roll of the ocean under the boat prompting a yawn out of him as he steps out into the open air, nothing but the near full moon to light his way as he clambers back to the dockside. There’s no one around; this late night rendezvous lonely yet cathartic as the sounds of the water soothing the anxiety that’s been tainting his every waking moment since speaking to his father two weeks ago. He’s gotten nothing but rejections since then, but as he heads off down to the wooden dock back to the hotel, past the boats and the slumbering gulls and the thousands of stars, it’s hard not to be overtaken by some sort of hope, in the peace of the night.

Tomorrow's a new day and all that.

* * *

“Another rejection?” Hermes crumples the letter in between his hands, a foul emptiness filling him, the undertone of anxiety ramping into a sludge in his veins. The hotel is quiet, the few early vacationers out and about for the evening, though most tourists won't return till the end of May. The front desk girl watches as he tosses the paper into the wastebasket behind the desk, not particularly surprised at this point as she has seen this play out half a dozen times in the past two weeks. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“Rejection number six.” Hermes says bitterly, running a hand through his hair and scratching the back of his head vigorously. Outside, the afternoon sun is as peaceful as the weather, barely even a breeze to shake the decorative fake plants outside the front hotel doors. It's just them in the lobby, Achilles making his rounds and neither Hades nor Nyx within the hotel grounds today. Even still, Hermes holds back from just bashing his head into the desk.

It's hard not to let it get to him. He's still got a month, sure, but, you know, after another hung up call, another short unimpressed interview, another 'just not a fit for us at this time', it's starting to wear on him. He’s been doing everything he’s supposed to: Applying, getting interviews, making calls, hell, he even convinced Hades to take him to the city for more business clothes which had been a disaster, but hey, if it helps-

It didn't. Turns out, a name can only get you so far before the lack of work experience, aborted college career, and long list of jobs each lasting no more than two months rears their collective ugly head and whoever is in charge of the hiring department laughs his application in the bin. Or at least he assumes so considering this is only the sixth rejection he’s gotten and he’s potentially applied to at least a few dozen places. 

In any other circumstance, it'd be water off the proverbial duck's back, but at such a high volume in such a short amount of time...

“That really sucks, man.” Hermes tries the keep his expression neutral. The desk girl is being sincere, more than she usually is, brow knitted together in concern and one side her mouth pulled into an empathetic frown. He just doesn't want to hear the sympathy right now.

In an effort to not start loudly and rapidly offloading everything onto the employee, he scruffs his trainers against the well-worn faded, in-desperate-need-of-disposing carpet, having been about to go for a run when the mail finally arrived. Nyx and Hades haven't come to an agreement on what to replace the flooring with, or even what the budget would be like. He's heard the row over it a few times, listening in from the back room with the staff and snickering at how the two owners snipe at each other with the well-practiced ease of a fine tuned instrument in the hands of a master. Eventually, they'll get around to replacing the carpeting. 

Not that Hermes will get to see it if this keeps happening. 

"I'll be back." He says, nauseous from the churning in his gut making it's way into his esophagus, swiftly moving across the lobby and shoving open the front doors for the mild early eve outside. He starts off at a jog, just needing to move, to get away for a minute. 

The sidewalks are clear, a few people walking their dogs before or after dinner. Some cars pass, tired businessman and overworked secretaries on their way home after a long day of overwork and underpay, paying Hermes little mind as he makes his way mindlessly through town on the circuit he's tread dozens of time before now. Spring is in full bloom around him, trees green and vibrant and the meticulously crafted gardens of the town's retirees coming to fruition under their well-practiced hands. 

Hermes sees none of it, head up straight and face forward and yet registering little save for one foot in front of the other and unceasing drivel rolling around his thoughts.

At this point, it’s less about figuring the rest of his life. He’s got a lot of that left. Who cares. He just needs something that pays. Doesn’t matter what it is so long as he can stay here, or even move into the city if he needs. He can be miserable for a bit because the other options are working for his father or homelessness.

Alright, maybe not that dramatic. Zeus would let him bum around the family house for a while, but Hermes would never hear the end of it; just a constant cycle of guilt and nagging and direct passive insults to his capacity to be a capable working adult until Hermes gave in and just started working at his father’s office in order to not hear about all the money that's getting wasted-

Hermes knee locks, muscles contracting all the way up his calf as if they mean to break themselves and he stumbles. He recovers, no harm no foul, leg protesting something fierce but he ignores it. He’s got other things on his mind and sitting still in the stifling hotel isn’t going to help him, leg pain be damned.

He needs somewhere desperate for a position filled. He's been applying to too high brow of places, places that need him to have a vehicle, places that need more experience than he has. Not the best move on his part, but they seemed like better options than the permanently open jobs at the few fast food joints in the county. 

Of course, there's another place he's been avoiding. 

Hermes waves at the old mailman as he passes him a third time tonight, the man finishing up his rounds at, what is it? Nearly 7 p.m. now? He's seen him out at all hours of the day, early in the morn and late in the evening, perpetually forgetful, slow, and yet always with time to chat with the locals. Not that Hermes has been paying any attention on his daily runs, just that after so many, it's hard not to miss how much time the mailman wastes and the major inefficiencies in his hectic route.

It's not that he has any interest in the job; absolutely not. He's got a name to live up to and God only know's what his father would say if he started a job like that. It's just Hermes knows he could do better. And he's getting desperate.

“You should go for it!” Eurydice had said, stealing a fry from his basket a few nights ago. She’s been increasingly exhausted, bags under her eyes, often caught staring out at the road, apron more rumpled than ever. Orpheus is a few weeks late, and even if she doesn’t admit it, it's clearly been weighing on her. “Can’t be any worse than the old guy now.” 

Hermes had nodded, changed the subject to one of her wait staff’s burgeoning pregnancy, cause there’s just one problem. 

He needs to be able to drive. Sure, he could run around town, delivering the mail, but he’s not that fast. And his leg isn’t that strong anymore and he's at least 80% certain you need to be able to drive.

His leg fumbles again, catches himself faster, keeps going. His lungs are starting to ache. How long has he been going? He's passed through the once again empty park a few times now, past the green playground equipment, past the empty lot of dark grass, past the couple and their massive black poodle, well on his way to the seaside. He can just see the back of the diner at the end of the block if he squints. 

The sun's getting low but he can’t stop now. Not yet. Because if he stops, he’s back to sitting in the hotel, useless, brooding, wallowing in his own inadequacies. But at least when he’s running, he’s normal again, he’s fine again-

It’s rare that Hermes trips. He’s a fleet-footed guy, confident, swift, and sure of every step. It’s what gave him his scholarships, his medals, his athletic career. 

Or at least, that used to be the case. 

Passing the diner, crossing the street, he intends to run by the sea, perhaps finding some inspiration there for how to get over his driving thing. Attention elsewhere, his left foot hits the uneven demarcation between sidewalk and boardwalk, it’s slightly raised surface awkward and insidious. With a cry and a pop in his ankle, he is sent sprawling to the old wood of the boardwalk, bad knee taking the brunt of the fall and a slicing bloom of fire shooting through his calf. With a cascade of spiraling cursing intermixed with huffs of pain, Hermes rolls onto his back, palms stinging from the scrape of the wood. 

Close by, the ocean laps at the supports to the wooden path, sloshing and splashing barely making it past the blood pounding in his ears and the panting of his breath. A gull pads by, tilting its head this way and that as if hoping this sad display had carried some form of food with him for the bird to steal. It takes off as Hermes puts hands over his face, groaning loudly as his ankle aches with every twitch and his leg answers with an unceasing throb of stabbing heat. 

"Fuck." He says, dropping his hands to push himself up a little. To his right, the old brick of Charon's shop looms, providing some cover from anyone on the street or at the diner. To his left, he can see the docks, some fishermen cleaning their vessels or packing up for the day. No one seems to have noticed him, and that's a blessing in of itself. 

Sitting up with a hiss, he tries to stretch out his bad leg, finding the knot of pain and over-tight muscles in his knee too much to get it straight. He pulls off his shoe and sock, grimacing at what he sees. Gingerly touching the rapidly swelling ankle only angers it more, and though its not the worst sprain he's ever had, he'll probably still be feeling it tomorrow. Cursing again, he brings maneuvers his other leg so his foot is flat on the wood beneath him, knee bent and he rests his forehead against it, the sweat on his skin slick and too warm as he slowly brings his panting and heart rate to something normal. 

He's knows better than this. He's been so careful lately, pacing himself. Why did he think pushing himself for an hour was a good idea? What if he fucked up his leg more doing this? 

He glances down at his bum leg again, trying to rub the pain out of his knee with his thumb futilely. Its the realization that he's going to have to wait here for the initial shock of the sprain and the twitching mess in his leg to die down before he can even attempt to limp home that really eats at him. Someone is going to find him before he can get up, bet on that, but given the time, and the day of the week, it most likely won't be-

The steady thump of someone approaching rouses his attention, and Hermes freezes, still pressing his forehead as hard as he can into the knob of knee. Boots come into his vision, worn, brown, salt-stains in pale yellow waves dyed into the leather nearest the rubber soles. He knows those boots, and if his heart was starting to return to a normal beats for minute, that is certainly no longer the case.

Oh, speak of the devil.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Hermes turns his head up, giving Charon a closed mouth smile that is 90% pain, 10% begging him to just leave Hermes to rot here. He can only imagine how much of a mess he looks like right now; sweaty, red in the face, clutching is his leg in his jogging shorts. 

That shouldn’t be the most prominent worry, but, you know, it is. 

Charon plucks the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to the boardwalk and crushing it with the toe of his boot. He hooks his thumbs in jeans pockets, rings shining in the light of the beginnings of the sun setting behind him, and waits, silent, as if expecting Hermes to ask for help. Unfortunately, he's a little more stubborn than that. 

“Don’t worry about me, my good boat man." Hermes tells him, inwardly cringing at the platitude. "Not my first rodeo... or sprain for that matter. Should be just fine” One of Charon’s eyebrows goes into his hairline, his hat, and into the stratosphere as Hermes attempts to get to his feet. He gets as far as getting his right knee under him, but the moment he tries to put any pressure on the left, he wavers, the pain increasing in its volume with every ounce of effort. “Okay, miscalculation, perhaps a little help would be-”

A hand wraps around his bicep, and Hermes is very suddenly pulled to his feet, a sharp inhale of breath squeaking out of him as his ankle complains about the new position. Once he’s stable, Charon leans down, maneuvering one of Hermes' arms to be around his shoulders as if the shorter man were nothing but putty. With Hermes leaning most of his weight on Charon, feet barely touching the boardwalk, he walks them toward the shop. 

Of course, even in the whiplash of fall, sprain, and then now being ostensibly kidnapped by a very large man, Hermes has enough in him to be faintly, immensely embarrassed about it. His arm stretched over the broad shoulders and side pressed heavily to Charon's own, Hermes would rather drowning in the ocean than where he is right now as the back door to the shop is easily opened and they walk inside. He's saying something, Hermes is aware of that, a constant deluge of apologizing and excuse making in lieu of Charon's stoic silence, but it's either that or be even more aware of how nice Charon smells today or how strong his grip seems or how easily he moves Hermes as if it's an afterthought.

"This is very quite nice of you but," Charon says nothing, probably can't considering one hand is quite tight around Hermes' waist, and, wow, he needs to not be thinking about how very warm it is. "Honestly, you could just leave me on the side of the building, probably be better, you know, wouldn't want to trouble you just because I fell on my ass-"

Before Hermes knows it, they're at the top of the landing to the second floor. He doesn't remember getting up the stairs. He was kind of focused on other things. 

Opening the door reveals an apartment that is just as cramped and cluttered as the store below it. Hermes didn’t exactly know what he expected as Charon leads him past boxes of product and goods stacked in various locations along the off-white walls of his living room. The old wooden floor complains with every step, the combined weight the both of them clearly giving it something to worry about and Hermes has the idle thought of it breaking beneath them as he is set down on a brown cheap looking couch that has been used, perhaps, three times. 

The couch is of no distinct amount of comfort, just a piece of furniture that must exist solely for the purpose of making the glorified storage room appear lived in though Hermes can sparsely complain as he sprawls across the corner. The empty, second hand coffee table is kicked over to him and Charon motions that he put his leg up on it, which Hermes does gratefully, low noise grunting out of him as the new angle sends little skitterings of pain up his calf and into his knee. While sprain will heal quickly, his leg is going to be in all sorts of awful for at least a week and he lets his head hit the back of the couch as Charon lumbers away to grab something. 

It is awfully quiet up here, nothing but the soft noises from the shop downstairs and the opening of cupboards to hide the emptiness between the stacks of boxes and product. Sighing and grimacing, Hermes cranes his neck to look around, finding only some closed doors and just barely seeing the back of Charon through the entry to his small functional kitchen/dining area. There's few decorations: a small painting or two, a bookshelf lined with a few odd baubles, nothing spectacular or eye catching. Place seems small overall as if just the bare minimum needed for someone who's never here and Hermes is quick to go back to staring at his propped up leg when Charon returns with a glass of water, a little bottle of ibuprofen, and a bag of ice. 

Setting them on the table, Charon gestures at the mismatched throw pillow under his elbow. Hermes tosses it to him, not thinking about why he may need it, only to freeze when the man gently, carefully, slides his fingers beneath Hermes' injured ankle, picking it up to slip the pillow beneath it and setting the foot back down. Hermes finds himself missing the touch immediately, extremely grateful for the amount of discomfort he is in, otherwise the sight and feel of the man's long fingers even something as innocent as his ankle may have had some unfortunate adverse effects on him.

Not that he’s had more illicit fantasies of Charon’s hands on him to know that. Or that he’ll be ruminating on this later, in the privacy of his own room either. 

“I got it!” Hermes blurts out, as Charon goes to grab to the ice, presumably to press it to Hermes' ankle and he stops, backing off with his hands up as though he means no harm. Hermes' ears grow hot with embarrassment, fumbling over himself to not look so much like a jackass. “It’s just, I- you’ve already done so much. I don't want to bother you any more than necessary.” Charon shrugs, straightening, letting Hermes sit up and settle the ice over his increasingly bulbous ankle.

"Need anything?" Charon asks after his guest downs a couple of ibuprofen and settles back into the couch. Hermes barely catches the question, trying his best not to look at Charon right now. He feels like such a twit. He’s got to be seven different shades of maroon as he sips on the glass of water. You could paint a sunset with the amount of reds on display in his face alone. 

"No, thank you, though." He murmurs quietly, humiliation like a suffocating blanket, and he sets the glass back down. Charon's face is his usual mask, somewhere between indifference and mild apathy, mouth a straight line and posture firm, but Hermes can't help the line of thought that he's being looked down upon. Or at least regarded with some level of pity. Not that Hermes should care, but the reality is that he does, more than he'd like to admit. 

“Stay as long as you need.” Hermes nods as Charon leaves, closing the door behind him. Hermes groans to himself as he hears the heavy boot steps fading away into the shop downstairs. 

In the wake of the silence that follows, it's easy to berate himself once more. He pushed it too far this time, way more than before. His physical therapist’s head is probably spinning on her shoulders wherever she is these days. He looks down at his propped up legged, gently touching his knee and following the faded scar down to his mid-calf. It’s twitchy, smoldering, muscles still tight and ready to rend themselves apart if he even thinks about flexing them, every wiggle of his toes sending unpleasant tingles up and up, even as far as his hip.

Hermes flops back, rubbing at his temples, fully accepting the next few days of leg hell he’s in for, and for what? What’s been accomplished other than twisting his ankle and looking like an absolute tool in front of Charon? He lets his arm fall to his side, blinking at the white popcorn ceiling, making an irritated noise when a shift brings on another stab to his ankle.

This wouldn’t be happening if he could just drive. If he wasn’t such a ninny, he’d be able to get to the city easier, thus getting a job easier. Or even, hell, the postman job. It’d probably be terrible, his dad would have words about doing something so beneath him, but he could deliver some mail, make some cash, not act like a blockhead and actually do something with his life…

That’s the issue, the real issue, the car issue. He just needs to get comfortable behind the wheel again, get over his panic, but he’d need someone to be in the vehicle with him to do that. Just another pair of eyes and hands to keep him from doing something stupid or annoying, but there’s not a lot of options around for people who a) have cars, b) are willing to do something like that, and, most importantly, c) aren’t bastards like his uncle who ask too many ques-

Hermes sits up, ignoring the immediate discomfort to stare wide-eyed at the front door. Downstairs, the nasally undertones of Skelly drift into the floorboards, complaining about something over the light jazz he’s put on today. It's close to closing, so no one is in the store save Skelly and the silent owner. 

A silent owner who has a car.

This would be an absolutely terrible idea, right? There’s no way he’d agree to it, right? Charon would laugh in his face, right? Well, there's nowhere lower his opinion can go at the moment, could it?

Hermes crosses his arms over his chest, settling back again, thinking. He wouldn't agree to it. There's nothing in it for Charon. Hermes has nothing to bribe him with save for-

No, he wouldn't want that. For all Hermes knows, Charon has the same amount of interest in men as he does, who knows, seashells or something. Anything else is wishful thinking. 

But if Hermes got the job, he'd have something bribe with, or at least pay back any debt they settled on. He couldn't make it worth Charon's while now, but he could later, and if he doesn't get any sort of cash flow, then, well, he'll be hundreds of miles away and it won't matter anymore. 

Hermes makes to get up, the sudden excitement of a very terrible idea motivating him beyond what his leg is currently capable of. He falls back with a huff, gingerly touching his knee, and thinking better of it. He'll have to wait for the ibuprofen to kick in, at the very least. 

* * *

He gives it about fifteen minutes, which is probably some kind of record considering Charon's apartment is very quiet and very boring and Hermes' couldn't even pass the time by looking around, so he's proud of those fifteen minutes, thank you very much.

“-ain’t gunna happen for a while, least not from me." Hermes pauses as he slowly hobbles his way down the stairs, which takes quite a bit of effort considering he's got himself all psyched up to ask Charon for help but he did, in that time, forget Skelly was going to be around. "Whoever elected that hoity-toity bitch Theseus as sheriff must be out to get me, boss. Can’t go a mile over the speed limit on the highway without that loud ass pullin’ me ov…” 

Skelly pauses as Hermes exits the backroom into the store proper, leaning heavily on his good leg and a bit knackered from the effort. As suspected, no one is in the shop, just Charon resting against the back wall behind the counter and Skelly apparently sweeping on the other side. Or at least he must have been about to, as when Hermes' rounds the corner, he's shaking the broom handle at Charon in the midst of his ranting, the tip of which swings round to point at Hermes to moment he's spotted.

“What the hell were you doin’ up there?” Is what comes screeching out of his mouth, angry and accusatory. Hermes' forehead wrinkles at that. Surely he should have heard Charon taking him upstairs, one would think, and it's not like Hermes is known for his discreet nature.

“I... sprained my ankle. If you must know.” Given the narrowed eyes glaring at his from his massive glasses, Hermes supposes Skelly has more selective hearing than he does.

“What, in Charon’s apartment?” He gestures upstairs with the broom handle, glancing helplessly between Hermes and Charon, mustache quivering.

“Gave him some ice.” Charon signs, and if Hermes squints, he could almost make the claim the man was trying to hide a grin. Skelly's frown deepens before he shakes his head, swatting a hand at the air between them and stalking toward the rest of the shop.

“I’m gunna go sweep.” Hermes watches him, rolling his eyes before turning back to Charon in time to see his shoulders quaking with silent laughter, head down and shaking it as if the chuckle had surprised him with it's suddenness. 

It's strange to think he's only ever seen the man laugh once before this, and as the wide brim of his hat effectively blocks most of his scarred face, Hermes is struck by how much he wished that wasn't the case. He's seen a lot of Charon, won't stop bothering the man despite his own best efforts, trying to unravel the mystery that is the enigmatic store owner/tour boat guide/whatever else Charon gets up to in his free time when Hermes isn't looking so maybe he get over this slight childish...whatever he has going on. And yet, even with all, and all that time spent around the man, just for that moment as Skelly grumbles something in the back, knocking something from a shelf, Hermes find himself taken with how much he quite likes to see the man laugh.

“Charon," Hermes says after a moment, quietly when he finds his voice again. Charon turns his head to him slowly, flicking his hat up to better see Hermes, long past his little chuckle. "Can I speak to you for a moment?” Charon studies him for a long moment behind those steadfast sunglasses, enough that Hermes nearly tells him to forget it, before nodding and gesturing vaguely in the direction of the back room.

The space is tight, the building nervous thumping of Hermes' pulse skyrocketing as he stands awkwardly by the foot of the stairs and Charon effectively blocks him in from the exit, towering over him. He's about to ask this man to sit in a car with him for potentially multiple hours alone, and he can't even spend half a second with him in a small room without sweating. How is he going to survive without dying of dehydration?

“I have a favor to ask.” He finally gets out, needing a bit to work of the courage. Charon stares, immovable, and Hermes takes it as a positive sign to continue. “And it’s going to be a strange one, so prepare yourself for that," He's scratching the back of his neck again, trying not to put any weight on his bad leg, "but, uh, would you mind….helping me learn how to drive?” 

He knows the wordage is a mistake the moment it leaves his mouth. Charon leans back just an inch, but clearly in disbelief, and Hermes is quick to rectify. 

“No, wait, I don’t mean…” Hermes breathes to collect himself, probably looking like the ball of anxious bits he feels like. “Look, I know how to drive, I didn't mean that. What I meant to say was I... it's been a very long time and, I just need to get used to it again." That seems to be better, Charon having plucked the cigarette from his mouth and crossing his arms over his chest to frown at the man before him. He gestures with his wrist for Hermes to keep talking, words coming faster.

"See, I'm on this fixed amount of funds and that's running out so I need a job so I can stick around a bit longer and I could probably do the mailman thing," He can feel his voice getting an octave higher, but he keeps fumbling through it, "I would think, doesn’t seem too hard, but I’m not comfortable behind the wheel and in order to get comfortable so I can get the job so I can get more money so I can stay here longer, I need to drive around a bit, preferably with someone in said car with me to make sure I don't cr- panic or do anything stupid or hurt anyone and I am making this excessively more long winded than it needs to be...”

He trails off and Charon still says nothing, doesn’t even move. Behind him, there's a clatter of something broom sized hitting the wood floor and the cussing of someone Skelly-voiced being quite distraught over it. Hermes sighs, dropping his hands from where they'd been gesticulating wildly. 

“And... if you help me, let me drive you about a bit until I can, you know, not be screaming my head off at every intersection, I’ll-I’ll pay you," He looks Charon in the face, attempting to convey some measure of the sincerity he's brimming with. "Whatever you want. Or do whatever you want. I’m willing to make whatever deal if it means I can stick around here for a bit longer.” 

Charon makes a noise, deep and thoughtful, cigarette burning away steadily near his elbow. 

“Any deal?” He signs, smoke from the fag tracing the motions his hands make. Hermes licks his lips, which he immediately feels self-conscious over, because it has to look strange, possibly even lecherous, but there’s a pang that goes off through him that has nothing to do with his leg at the sight of the slow way Charon’s hands moved as he shapes the question.

"Uh, well, I mean-"

“Hey, lovebirds, get over here.” Skelly is at the glass door, face practically pressed against it, and Hermes opens his mouth to object to Skelly’s particular epithet but he shuts it when Charon strides over to him. Taking in a gulp of air with Charon's dizzying presence no longer directly in front of him, Hermes limps to follow.

Outside, in the still air, a rusty van pulls away from the front of the diner across the street, leaving behind a trail of black exhaust fumes slowly dispersing into nothing and a skinny, gaunt man. He can’t be much taller than Hermes, dressed somewhere between a hitchhiker with a massive backpack slung across his shoulders and some kind of instrument case’s handle clutch in one pale bony hand and young professional who put on his white dress shirt and black slacks in the dark half-hungover eight hours ago. In front of him stands Eurydice, arms cross over her bosom, right in front of the entrance to her diner, blocking it from any entry.

“Orpheus is back early, ain’t he?” Hermes makes a noise as he stares out over the hunched shoulder, giving Skelly and incredulous look.

“That’s Orpheus?” He asks, pointing at the sagging mess of black hair and wrinkled clothes Eurydice is currently scowling at. 

“Yeah,” Skelly almost sounds wistful, pushing his glasses up his nose. “No idea how a drip like that bagged a broad like her.” 

The resounding _smack_ of Charon’s wide palm cracking against the back of Skelly’s head is a sound Hermes will find himself chuckling about at random intervals for months to come. Skelly opens his mouth to say something but shuts it at his boss's scathing look. Hermes almost wants to point and laugh. Almost.

Among the rapidly setting sun casting an ethereal glow over the roof of the shop and against the white siding of the diner, Orpheus takes a step forward. His posture is slouched, purposefully making himself seem smaller, shoulders drooping as if to portray a placating picture. Eurydice stands firm, won't budge an inch as her husband gestures gently, pleadingly. 

“Wonder what they’re talking talkin’ about.” Skelly remarks after a minute or two as Eurydice stabs a finger into Orpheus chest a few times.

“Probably about him being late.” Hermes' says it without thinking, transfixed by the thought that Eurydice might actually slap the man in front of her. Not that she seems particularly violent, but Hermes’ probably would’ve had he been in her shoes. “He was supposed to be back sometime in March, if I remember.” The side-eye Skelly gives him is at least worth a few hundred words, none of which Hermes finds particularly flattering. 

“Do you just go around snoopin’ in everyone’s business, pal?” Hermes starts to snip back, fully intending on bringing up any number of rumors he’s heard about the man, up to and including the fact that he is one of three people permanently banned from the restaurant they are currently staring at, but Charon clearing his throat and tapping on the glass brings both their attention back to the outside. 

The furrow to Eurdyice’s brow eases, the clear disdain in her eyes morphing into something so much more warm and she, finally, finally uncrosses her arms, opening them to Orpheus. They watch as he joyously insinuates himself into them, though his motion to give her a kiss is bypassed as she presses her lips to his forehead instead before embracing him completely. Next to Hermes, Skelly swears. 

“God damnit!” The balding man stomps away from the window, muttering under his breath and pulling out his wallet, slapping a ten dollar bill onto the store counter. He faces Charon, shaking an accusatory finger at him, his voice low and angry. “Really thought he was gunna be on your couch again, boss.”

Charon, for his part, says nothing, and appears as Charon always does, though Hermes would be lying if he didn’t think the man seemed in the least bit tickled by this display. He walks past the both of them, cigarette back in the corner of his mouth, unhurried as ever as he plucks the money from his counter and sliding it into his right trouser pocket.

“Better luck next year.” He signs, rounding the counter and opening his cash register to balance it’s contents. Outside, Eurydice pulls away from her husband, who begins his journey to their house as his wife returns to close up her diner.

Probably not a great idea to go bother her after this, Hermes decides, though he is positively vibrating with questions and asides.

“You say that every year.” Is Skelly’s snide rebuttal before he waves himself out for the night, the chime of the doorbell damningly clear as Hermes is left alone in the shop with Charon. 

Charon reaches down the counter, switching the radio off and plunging the shop into silence. He begins counting the change, the loud clang of coin clinking off each other and the metal basin of the register puncturing the relative quiet. He hasn’t looked at Hermes since beginning his count, hasn't even told him to leave yet, but there’s a distinct air that grows more and more pronounced with each punch of quarters landing upon quarters that Hermes’ time is up.

He doesn't really want to go, though, not yet ready to go back to the hotel yet. What really grabs him, observing Charon frown to himself and recount his dimes, is that he wants to ask the man to go get a drink with him. Or even an evening coffee. Or even a walk, his leg be damned. What he'd really like, right now, as he fiddles with the ties to his short, is to just sit and chat with the man, less in the way he's done before as Charon is working and somewhat obligated to listen to him, but more so, he doesn't know, on Charon's terms? As friends, perhaps, instead of whatever they are now.

“I should probably go.” Hermes decides as Charon seems satisfied with the numbers of his small change. Hermes flinches as he tries to shift the weight to his swollen ankle, regretting it immediately, and that does not seem to fly by Charon’s notice even as he makes to start on the bills.

“Need help?” He’s peering at Hermes from under the brim of his hat, and, like many times before, Hermes would give a lot to see his eyes, to see if it is a sincere expression of worry or just a formality of a helpful individual. 

“What? Oh, no. I should be fine.” It’s going to be a bit of a walk, but the movement will do good for his ankle, and the ibuprofen has dulled most of the hurt. Hermes puts his hand on the door, ready to push it open as the soft tell-tale shuffling of bills can be heard to his right before he pauses, worrying his lip. 

“Um, about what I asked earlier,” He starts, turning his head to Charon who has shifted himself, clearly listening as he continues to balance. “I don’t… If it was out of line, you know, too much, just forget about it. I don’t want to be-”

“I’m thinking about it.” Charon’s hands are languid, bills in each, and he doesn't even bother to look up as before resuming his task. Hermes blinks owlishly as he registers what Charon signed, fighting a smile.

"R-right! Okay, uh, let me know, I guess.” He leaves then, with a final goodbye and thank you for the help. Charon waves him out, distracted by his cash and Hermes begins his limping journey back to the hotel along a long lonely darkened street, aided only by the streetlamps flickering above and the last vestiges of the fiery light peeking over the line of shops.

Is it his imagination that Charon watches him as he passes by the large window of the shop, or does the man actually stop his task, lowering his hands to rest upon the register, head tilted and brim of his hat up to keep an eye on Hermes as he struggles for a few steps before finding confidence in his footing on the well-worn sidewalk?

Hermes ignores it, puts it out of his mind, forgets about it as the buildings to his right open up to the dark beach and the rising tide. The waves come and go, pulling and pushing the sand as they creep ever closer, the song of their interminable crashing lulling, inviting. Grit crunches under his trainers against the path, and as the sun disappears finally beyond the horizon and envelopes the town completely in night, Hermes stops to look back down the distance he’d just come, breathing deep and shaking his head before continuing.

It’s wishful thinking, at best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just imagine Theseus dressed like a state trooper in short shorts. please. it's for your own health. (Updated the chapter count. I think that's should be the final number.)


	10. Chapter 10

Hermes doesn’t know what to expect when he clambers onto the boat in the early early morning the next day. The sun has just barely begun its ascent, just barely burning away beyond the eastern edge of town. This far away at the docks, it looks little more that the barest blushes of pink on the horizon between the buildings and houses. While he generally sequesters these little forays for the evening, he had spent the night laying in his bed fruitlessly, and when the clock rolled round to 4a.m., he gave up, giving into the mantra of endless excited apprehensive questions as he rolled out of bed.

Why did he ask Charon of all people? Cause he wants an excuse to spend time with the man? Cause he’s desperate? Cause Charon has a car? Cause he talks to Hermes? Plenty of people do that.

There’s a difference though, isn’t there? Not in regards to the first two; he’s ignoring those. Yeah, he’d like to get to know Charon more, certainly, but the idea of doing so when he’s going to be on the verge of a panic attack is the exact opposite of how he’d like that to work out, thanks. But no, the difference is with anyone else, they’d probably ask questions, probe him until they figured him out. Hades wouldn’t need to interrogate, well familiar with the particular minutiae of the preceding events, but he’d still talk, still wonder why Hermes hasn’t gotten better-

Hermes pauses, about to open the cabin, a vague dreading seeping into him. He clicks the little flashlight he’s brought along a few times in his pocket, fingers tapping the cool metal of the door handle. There’s rain predicted for today, nothing heavy, just a light shower, but the clouds blotting out the waning night sky over the sea seem endless. 

Charon’s not much like Hades in that regard, is he? He isn't really much like anyone. He doesn’t really ask questions. Waits for Hermes to do that. Doesn’t seem much interested in him, to be fair, only politely listening to his chattering and entertaining him out of a sense of… well…

Hermes opens the door, pulling out the flashlight and snatching the note off the white wall, leaving a bit of residue from the tape. Alright, he has no real idea why Charon keeps being nice to him. Man's a decade older than Hermes, got his life together, has nothing in common with him, and yet-

He still hasn't rebuffed him. Hermes isn't complaining; not even close. Maybe Charon's just bored; a new person twittering around him being entertaining for a while. He can't imagine any other reason Charon keeps letting himself be bothered so much. 

Kind of a disappointing thought, really. 

Hermes puts it out of his mind, disregarding the bitterness seeping into him at that, focusing instead on the matter at hand. The page is getting cramped on the one side, only being about half of a piece of notepad paper. Anything new will have to be written on the other side. He’ll have to remember to bring a new sheet of paper soon, because like hell he’s letting this get thrown away. 

Looking down, under the faintly yellow illumination of the flashlight, he sees little line has been drawn from his crossed out _you’re not so bad_ , a small tight addition of _you’re not so bad yourself,_ pulse stuttering, and he reads it about seven times, half wanting to eat the response to his stupid comment, which is a weird thought to have, but he has it. Grinning stupidly to himself, he looks on, smile faltering as he sees nothing else. Not to be discouraged, he flips the page over, relieved as he see's more on the back. 

He reads it eagerly, eye widening at the neat script written in black ink. He reads it again. 

And then a third. 

And then a sixth, each time infused with a renewed vibration he could not describe. 

_Wednesday, 8p.m. Meet me at the shop._

* * *

It’s amazing how time can slow and speed up like a broken carnival ride. Some days inch along at a snail’s pace as an hour feels like five and by noon, Hermes is certain he’s lived several lifetimes as his body slowly hollows out by the passage of the clock and his mind melts out of his ear from the sheer boredom of nothing to do as he stares at a wall, unable to move for how paralyzing it all is. 

The next two days are not that. 

If anyone were to ask what Hermes did after he read the note, he couldn’t tell them if they had three guns to his head. One minute he’s jumping off the boat, swearing loudly enough to send a few birds squawking into the air as he forgot about his ankle in his excitement, and the next Hades is berating him for taking up too much time at a table in restaurant while he tried to pen a normal response back to Artemis while also chatting the waitress’ ear off about all the things he learned about the town’s history at the library yesterday. Oh, and also it’s noon on Wednesday, somehow. 

“Don’t you have better things to do than bother my wait staff?” Hades had chided, ushering him from the restaurant past the three other people sitting around at tables as far apart from each other as they can, sipping on water and waiting for the cook to finish making their light lunches and doing a line of blow in the supply closet. 

Neither Hades nor Nyx have discovered that facet of the new chef’s character yet, but Hermes is certain the fallout once they find his stash behind the soup shelf will be one for the ages. He’s even been dropping hints to try and get _someone_ back there who isn’t afraid of the man, but so far, no dice. Hermes just hopes he's around when they do.

“You’re absolutely, positively right, uncle.” Hermes had responded, yanking his arm from his uncle's grasp as they exited the restaurant. “What had I been thinking, wasting my time writing back to my dear worried sister? Good thing you’re around, or, heaven forbid, I may get my correspondences out within a timely manner!”

The force at which Hades rolled his eyes could feasibly be harnessed into a new source of renewable energy, Hermes would think. 

“If your plans for the moment are to while away the afternoon loitering in my business, I would suggest it be taken elsewhere before I find any number of trivial endeavors to put you to work with.” 

He does make a compelling argument but...

“Glad you see you finally admit it, dear Hades," Hermes had said, smile growing with every millimeter Hades' eyes had narrowed. "The errands have been rather pointless, haven't they?” Instead of his usual quips, his uncle violently pointed down the hall toward the foyer, nearly bashing into a passing guest.

“Out.” 

An even more compelling argument, to be sure, one with which he followed with a cheeky wave that only darkened the scowl on Hades' face more. 

Hermes has found messing about all day is rather easy when he's anticipating something. And it's a fine day at that, encouraging any who can to waste the time in the spring sun under the blue sky and plumped white clouds. He does just that, spending his afternoon at the beach watching a few ambitious surfers, wandering a few of the specialties shops and wondering exactly how long it’ll be before his uncle sends him a care package that is less care or and more fish and fish related accessories, and just generally not trying to imagine what Charon’s going to say to him.

He keeps repeating the words in his head, has been since he read them, unsure what to glean from them. Leave it to Charon to make this mysterious. He could have just written what he meant on the note.

Worst case scenario is Charon saying no, actually he’s not interested in this little endeavor. Hermes doesn't even want to entertain that one. Middle case is him asking for money, also the most likely, and one Hermes is most prepared for. Best case... 

Alright. He is not hoping for the possibility of an exchange of sexual favors. He’s not thinking about it as he sits in the diner, sometime after 7p.m., back against the glass window as he stretches out along the booth, tacitly not looking at the shop. He’s not imagining how such a scenario may play out as he observes the three different bouquets of various orchids and roses and all sorts of flowers placed at various points of the long counter, each one addressed Eurydice accompanied by increasingly sappy poems. 

He may have thought about it this morning in the shower, picturing those long, gold banded fingers gripping his shoulder and shoving him down to his knees before signing that he should put his mouth to better use _but-_

It’s not what he’s thinking about right now.

Wednesdays aren’t particularly busy for Eurydice’s diner, despite offerings of free pie with every meal, started exclusively to drive in more customers. As such, in this last half hour or so of business, the restaurant is a peaceful place as the last customer of the day bids Eurydice a warm farewell and gives Hermes a little wave for his troubles. Heels clack on the checkered tile floor just off beat from the hushed pining tune wafting over them while Hermes watches the man leave for his truck parked in front of the diner. 

The clunking truck pulls away, sputtering in continued existence, and if Hermes strains his neck, he can just see Charon's long grey car parked outside of the shop instead of at Erebus Manor where he usually leaves it. A good sign, for sure, but an nerve wracking one at that. Is he even going to be able to drive that thing, physically speaking? Charon's got a good foot on him, possibly foot and a half, Hermes' head ending up somewhere near his collarbone. His feet might not even reach the gas...

Realizing what he's doing, Hermes swiftly looks down at his hands where they are fidgeting with his napkin. He’s not worrying about it. He’s not thinking about it. He’s remaining good and calm, stripping another bit off the napkin.

"What a day." Hermes glances up, Eurydice sliding into the booth across from him like she has a dozen times now. Even after a long day of cooking and serving the regulars, she is radiant, the far away glaze to her eyes gone and the rumples in her apron clearly from a hard day's work and not a disinterest in ironing it.

"Slow one though, yeah?" She tsks as though annoyed, pulling a toothpick from it's dispenser, but her gaze is warm, dancing with mirth.

“Doesn't stop it from being any less tiring." She says back, placing the wood into her mouth to worry and leaning back. "Gunna go see a movie after this. Got any plans for tonight?” 

Nearby, in his own booth in the corner of the diner generally roped off in the off season, Orpheus plucks somberly on an acoustic guitar, pausing every few moments to write in a notebook. He’s been here longer than Hermes, presumably waiting just like he is. Hermes hasn’t said a word to him yet, not entirely sure how to introduce himself. 

‘ _Hello, my name is Hermes. I’ve been the one keeping your lonely wife company every few nights late into the evening while you’ve been away. It’s great to finally meet her ‘freeloading husband’, her words, not mine.’_

He’s just going to hold off on all of that for the time being. And, even if he's wasn't about to go find out his fate at the very large hands of a very large man, he still would probably decline the implied invitation.

"Yes, actually." Hermes says, setting the rest of the carefully torn napkin onto the table, booth squeaking as he settles back into place with his hands folded in his lap. He turns his full attention to Eurydice, proud in a way.

“Well, that's got to be a first." Eurydice rests her arms on the table before them, interested. Out on the floor, the evening waitress sweeps, humming along with the radio, her brush strokes in sync as her hips sway casually with the music. "Who you got plans with?" 

“With uh," Whatever hubris he'd been enjoying drains quickly, looking down to where Eurydice's hand taps rhythmically to the faint song on the plastic table. "Charon, actually.” He finally gets out, swallowing, aware of what this might sound like. “He’s...helping me. With something. Maybe. Going to find out tonight if that's the case." 

“Oh.” Is Eurydice's reply, clearly taken aback, no longer tapping. She crosses her legs under the table, gazing out into the evening setting upon them, and Hermes wishes he could just sink into the chair. He's not sure why, just does. "Hm." 

“What?” He asks after a moment with a nervous sort of laugh. Why is he so anxious all of a sudden? 

"Nothing." Eurydice is quick to say, going back to stare at her empty hands. "Just a little unusual for him to be wanting anything to do with anyone." 

“I dunno." Hermes shrugs, scrambling for an explanation he's not sure why he owes. "It’s nothing weird or anything. He's just doing me a favor...I think. Might even be paying him.” None of that made it sound any less weird to be fair, but Eurydice does seem to accept that easier, nodding. Her expression is still troubled, maybe even more so, twisting the toothpick in her mouth. "Not like we're hanging out or anything."

“Probably would be better if it was you two hanging out." Hermes huffs at that, giving her a queer expression. The d.j. on the radio introduces the next song, a little quip about it's saucy title before a more upbeat track begins. "It's not really my business but," She starts again, this time gazing at the shop across the street as she plucks the toothpick from her lips, the low lights of the diner giving a warm glow to her skin and a bronze sheen to her brown eyes. "I just... I wonder if he’s lonely sometimes.” 

“Why do you say that?” He grabs a fresh napkin to worry, pressing the back of his head to the cool window. Beyond them, Orpheus softly sings a bar or two to himself a few times before nodding in approval.

“I don’t know.” There’s a wistful nature to her words, resting an elbow to the table and pressing her knuckles to her cheek as she continues. “He’s always been a loner, you know? No one goes in or out of his place, he never goes anywhere with anyone, just got that asshole he’s hired and his family, but I don’t see them around much either. Been a month or two since he brought his brothers in here…”

She trails off, opening her hand to rest her chin on her palm. Hermes stretches his neck to glance behind him, Charon at his register, balancing before close. It’s not a thought that had occurred to him before, the idea that Charon may be lonely, n any kind of capacity. The man is a mystery to him, will probably always remain so; Hermes had just assumed he enjoyed his solitude. 

“Even if he prefers it, it has to get to him sometimes.” Eurydice adds, mumbling.

And maybe it does. He clearly isn’t bothered enough by it to change his purposefully reclusive habits, and even with his disfigurement, he has the power to do so. The locals never complain of him, Hermes only hearing pleasantries about Charon in passing, and who knows what he gets up to at night and his few days off.

“I distinctly remember someone telling me off for staring...” Hermes teases, just dodging the toothpick getting tossed at him. Eurydice faces him again, nose turned up.

“Yeah, well, there’s a difference between you staring,” She picks up a loose spoon, shaking it at him, “and me working 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, for over a decade across the street, hon.” Hermes puts his hands up, placating laughing. 

“Alright, alright, no need to threaten the clientele. God only knows where that could get you.” 

“Clientele?" Eurydice makes a face, setting the spoon down at shaking her head. "Boy, you’re starting to count as _furniture._ ”

* * *

Hermes doesn't stick around much after that, nearly tripping over himself when Eurydice tells him the time. She stops him just as he leaves, hand on the glass door, the outside air wafting is as Eurydice hurriedly tells him of a get-together of sorts coming up in mid-May she'd previously forgotten to invite him to. 

"Think about it!" She yelled after him as he left with a hastened 'I will!', clock already ticking. He doubts Charon would think less of him for being a minute late, but he'd rather not risk it.

He doesn’t have time to pause at the door to the shop, to talk himself out of it, to stop and wonder if the non-descript smooth metal handle is an omen for what may come, as Charon is standing behind his counter, already observing Hermes in his approach. Instead, he takes a centering breath and pulls the door open, met with only the most trivial of resistance from well-oiled hinges, the waft of old wood, metal, and acrid tobacco greeting him in a familiar and calming manner. Even as his mind whirs with the possibilities and his heart thumps at the unknown, it’s difficult to not be comforted by the staunch monolithic nature of the shop. 

“Hi.” Hermes says simply after the last echo of the bell fades away in the otherwise silent store, the radio off as the person who generally presides over it having left an hour ago. Charon’s penchant for an environment as hushed as he is intimidating at times, right now even more so. How jarring must it be to have Hermes bothering him all the time, breaking that preferred quiet with his conversation. 

_I wonder if he’s lonely, sometimes_.

Hermes has to doubt it.

Charon stands there, a veritable statue as Hermes approaches the counter, creaking floor whining under him with every step. There's no greeting from him, all business; this isn't a social call after all, but a matter of exchange, whatever that trade may be. Might as well get to it.

“Alright, I’m here." He stops in front of the counter, hands in his pockets to keep them from fussing with anything. Above them on the wall, the clock's second hand ticks ever onward as Charon eyes him from behind his circular sunglasses, hat low, and expression impenetrable, his cigarette burning low. "On time, no need for applause. What are we doing?” 

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

The hand ticks over to a new minute, one past eight and Charon unfolds his massive forearms, gold watch shined to gleam as the overhead fluorescent bulb sparkles off it. Charon procures a piece of paper from his trouser pocket, sliding it across the counter smoothly with three of his ringed fingers before resuming his gargoyle-esque stance. Hermes takes it, hiding his unease with a muttering about the unnecessary dramatization of this request and unfolding the paper to reveal the tightly written, legible script he’s come to be familiar with. 

_Lessons are an hour each. 8p.m. unless stated otherwise. For each hour you need me, you owe one delivery. You get the job, you do the deliveries. If you don’t, then you don’t._

Hermes reads it again, peering up at Charon who is steadfastly staring out over Hermes' head and into the shop. He frowns, sniffing, brow pinching as he rumples one side of the note with his thumb. He didn't expect this. Money, certainly; Charon seems to have a penchant for it given his double duty of shop owner and tour boat guide, but deliveries, that's something else altogether. 

_One hour. One delivery._

“I don’t suppose you’ll be keeping me in the dark about what kind of deliveries I’ll be making.” Hermes muses finally, folding the paper back up and putting it in his bag. Charon watches this whole affair, nodding before he jerks his head toward the back room, indicating he should be followed as he begins to lumber away.

Hermes doesn't waste any time, curiosity at a near breaking point even if he’s got a sneaking suspicion about what he’s going to be shown. The stairwell is dark while they ascend, Charon not bothering to turn on a light and Hermes nearly bumps into him as the man unlocks his apartment. He's grateful for the cover though, taking a step back and ears burning at the needlessly lecherous thoughts popping to mind at the proximity.

Once inside, a light is flipped on, illuminating the cluttered and cramped living room which Charon navigates with a familiar ease, leading Hermes to what is presumably a closet door. Charon takes out a ring of keys, pulling one in particular and unlocking the closet as Hermes shuffles anxiously behind him. Door swinging open smoothly, he steps back so his guest can peer inside.

“I knew it!” He cries, pointing excitedly to the crates and various bottles of alcohol in specialized, well-polished shelving. Charon’s eyebrow raises slowly and Hermes arms drop as his own wrinkles. “Wait, why exactly do you have all of this?” He looks back in, one hand on the edge of the open door, hesitant to actually step inside. There's quite a lot of different liquors, from wine to whisky to the unlabeled bottles he'd helped move, but there's just as much missing, their various resting places marked with dozens of empty spaces. “Seems like a lot for you to personally go through, even if you had a habi- Oh my God, you’re selling it, aren’t you?” Hermes finishes, smacking his palm to his forehead. 

Charon shrugs, thumbs hooked in his pockets, but there is a hint of a smile to his ruined lips, something teasing were Hermes to assigned it an adjective and he understandably feels like a dunce. He probably should've figured that out earlier, considering he's never seen the man drink a thing nor found any empty bottles on his boat or around the shop.

Just didn't occur to him for some reason.

“Hm, right, well,” Charon closes the closet, and Hermes steps back as he locks it again. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight, heel hitting a stack of boxes just behind him. “So this is illegal, right? What happens if I were to get caught?” 

“I’d pay your bail.” Hermes makes a noise at that, starting to pace in a little circle, rubbing the back of his head and disrupting the short hairs there. Is this worth it? Risking criminality for a chance to stick around Styx Beach longer?

“Doesn’t fill me with much confidence.” He says finally, looking back at Charon who observes him, the buzzing hum of the cheap lightbulb above them worming its way into Hermes’ ear. “Technically trying to get a job with the government; doesn’t look great if I got caught essentially smuggling illicit substances even if any bail got paid. Seems like the sort of thing that'd stick around on a police record.”

“You’re a good boy with a famous father.” Charon signs dismissively, his particular wordage akin to a gut punch as Hermes takes it in. “Doubt it would stick.” 

Hermes is ignoring the ‘good boy’ part. He’s not thinking about it. He’s not paying any attention to it. He's moving past it, wiping a hand over his face in an effort to cover the flush rising to his cheeks. 

He really should just find someone to hook up with. This is getting a little ridiculous.

“I suppose that’s the hand I’m being dealt.” he mutters after a few seconds of contemplation. Charon does not deign that worth a response, instead extending his hand out, and Hermes frowns at it. He lets his own fist curl and uncurled at his side, gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

He's never done much illegal; few counts of trespassing, shoplifting, underage drinking, and inebriated driving aside. Nothing serious, or, rather, too serious. Nothing like smuggling at the very least. He left that sort of thing for his brothers. While Zeus always negotiated their way out of prison out of a fatherly sort of duty, there was always a sense of pride he looked upon Hermes with for never needing his connections like that, for being better than that.

Charon's skin is burning against his as he takes his hand in agreement.

“I- yes. I think that would be fine.” He’s never going to get used to shaking Charon’s hand. Even if he were to clasp the man’s palm a thousand times more, there isn’t a possibility it would stop the electric heat that catches his breath from zinging through him at the commanding way Charon grips him. 

When Charon lets go, he holds out the set of keys to Hermes, who's frown deepens, still reeling from the ghost of the other man's fingers on him. When the keys are jingled at him, he snatches them, unsure if their warmth from Charon’s hand is unnerving or not.

“Wait, we’re starting now?” His voice hits an interesting high on the ‘now’. Charon doesn’t bother to nod, just walks out of his apartment, boots stomping on the wooden stairs. Hermes stands there for a second, all sorts of bullshit coursing through him, before he takes off to follow Charon. 

* * *

The car has a particular smell to it: the old sweet undertones of tobacco smoke, the faint salty scent of the sea, the sun-faded air freshener hanging round the rearview mirror. It encompasses him as Hermes sits in the bucket seat, taken by how extremely small the cab of the car makes him seem. Even after he adjusts the seat to fit his particular stature, that feeling does not abate as Charon takes his place beside him, the space in the car having shrunk by about two thirds with his presence. 

“You have excessively long legs, did you know that?” Hermes starts, the nervous babbling finally breaking free as he moves the seat forward. Beyond the windshield, the street is lit merely by the streetlamp on the corner and the moon above, every business along the strip having long closed down. If he looks in the rearview, he can see the last flurry of closing activity from the diner, it's own lights off save for a few in the back. “I’m assuming you know, considering everything, them being attached to you and having to duck under every door you come across. Do you hit your head a lot?” 

Charon tilts his head this and that, as if to indicate every now and then. Hermes didn’t expect much of an answer, delighted he got one, barely paying attention as he clicks the seatbelt in place and slots the key into the ignition. 

“Figured you’d get use to everything being too short after a while, if that’s how you’re living every day. Can’t imagine it much myself, very average height, as it were. Did you purposefully make that stand of yours so short, or did it come like that?” The engine turns over, roaring to life, and Charon huffs, buckling himself in. “I have half a mind to think you like looking as large and intimidating as you do.”

Hermes says it without thinking, mouth snapping shut when he realizes that could be taken as some kind of insult or judge of Charon’s character instead of the playful dig he was going for. Despite this, Charon lets his head drop, shoulders shaking a bit, a thin rattling chuckle just barely to be heard over the engine. He pulls off the hat, the crown of his pale hair pressed flat underneath, before tossing it to the back seat with all the ritual one would expect someone to take off a hat with. 

“Just don’t crash my car.” He signs slowly, good-naturedly, before slinging one arm round the back of the driver’s seat.

Hermes nods once, muttering 'right', tearing his eyes away from Charon's now bare head and not thinking about how he shouldn't be able to feel the warmth off of Charon's arm from behind the seat, but he definitely does as he shifts the gear into reverse, hyper-aware of every minute brush of his elbow or arm. As they start rolling, his awareness jacking into high gear as they begin to move, he has at least one thing to be grateful for. 

He's not really thinking about driving.

* * *

Of course, that does not last very long. The moment he settles, the moment his thoughts drift, the moment he relaxes as they turn past the hotel down into the town proper, the anxiety wells and wells. Every street passed, every tick of the speedometer upward, every other car that zips by, the want to slam the brakes and jettison himself from the car grows and grows. 

He's going to fuck it up. He's going to make a mistake. He's going to get distracted, get overwhelmed, get _hurt-_

His knee is bouncing, palms slick with sweat, stomach churning sickly. He looks to the dashboard clock, hands tightening on the wheel. It's barely been fifteen minutes. 

They come to a stop at an intersection and Hermes breathes, forearms starting to hurt from how hard he's gripping the leather of the thin steering wheel. He lets go, wiping his hands on his trousers, just giving himself a moment to get himself back under some kind of calm. Next to him, Charon has put the seat back, half sitting, half laying, arms behind head, probably the most relaxed Hermes has even seen him. 

It's a nice look on him. Comfortable, even. Probably be more so if he wasn't wearing the sunglasses. He'd already pushed them up once to rub at the bridge of his nose, clearly finding some irritation in continuing to wear them tonight. 

"You can take those off, if you'd like." Hermes had meekly suggested, tapping on the steering wheel, grateful for the momentary distraction. Charon had just put them back in place like he hadn't heard, pulling the lever on the side of his seat to lower the backing.

Can't say he didn't try. 

Outside, among the simplistic houses that line the darkened road leading to the empty park, a car pulls to a stop to the left of them. Not ready to go just yet, Hermes flashes his brights and they proceed, the headlights of Charon's car highlighting the abundant bush of Eurydice's hair tied back as it always is in the passenger seat. She's gesticulating fervently, paying no heed to who they're passing. Charon sits up, bringing his arms to his sides and clearly surverying them as the car rolls down the road out of town, out of sight. He makes a thoughtful noise deep in his chest. 

“Going to see a movie tonight.” Hermes tells him, nodding in the direction of the car went, “Invited me, but, as you know, kind of busy. Should see the veritable garden she’s got on her counter in the diner. Orpheus must’ve bought out the whole flower shop, mind you… Eurydice's got to be quite happy he's back.”

“He’s in the dog house.” Charon says after sitting up fully, slightly hunched in his posture. He’s excessively assured about that, hands moving with the finality of someone who has the utmost confidence. Hermes hums at that, watching as Charon adjusts his sweater before resuming his previous position.

Hermes eyes him, for entirely different reasons than usual. He hasn't been to the diner in a month, according to Eurydice. Do he and Orpheus hang out on the off times?

“How do you know that?” Charon doesn’t answer him, just clears his throat and nods his head at the stop sign they’d been sitting at for quite a few minutes too many. Hermes sigh, putting his hands back on the steering wheel and swallowing his resignation.

What an odd thought, one that he latches onto in the hushed car as a truck pulls up behind them. Charon has to know lots of things, doesn't he, the silent man at the back of the shop, always watching, always listening. What rumors, what secrets does he know about the townspeople he services, never spoken but always heard?

He'll have to ask later, a plan already formulating of how to get the answer. There's one avenue Charon's relatively comfortable answering questions. Hermes puts his hand back on the gearshift, flipping the turn sign signal and the foreboding cocktail swirls within him as they begin to move again.

* * *

The streetlights overhead cast their ethereal glow into the darkened cabin of the car, briefly illuminating Hermes’ white knuckled grip on the steering wheel and Charon’s still form beside him before darkness rolls over them once more. Turning the corner round the diner, Hermes pulls to a stop in from of the shop, hitting the brake a bit too hard and jolting it’s occupants as he winces. He throws the gear into park, turns the engine off, and as the machine putters down, machinations fading in the empty street, the hardened steel of his nerves gives way and he lets his forehead hit the steering wheel with a frustrated, shaky groan. 

They didn’t hit over 20mph the entire time. Didn’t even go on the highway as when Charon suggested it _twice_ , Hermes froze and told him maybe next time. Thus, they just drove around town, through its neighborhoods and past the various business in the middle of town and over the potholes and disused railroad tracks a dozen times, stopping every few moments startlingly when Hermes nerves got the best of him with the only sound outside of the ambiance of the night and the car itself being Hermes panicked babbling that started and stopped almost as much as the vehicle. 

What a horrible time. 

Hermes rubs a palm over his eyes after exiting the car and shutting the door, relieved at being outside of it alive and well, yet wishing he wasn't so he didn't have to subject Charon to it again. He turns back to the car, having wandered a bit as he assures himself everything is _fine._ Squinting in the faded light from the streetlamp on the nearby corner, he prepares to apologize, to ask if Charon wants to just call it off here as the taller man straightens, hat firmly back on his head.

Hermes couldn’t fathom how terribly boring and annoying it’d have to be in the passenger seat with himself. Charon just sat there, listening, providing basic responses to whatever subject Hermes’ ping-ponged between in order to distract himself from the onslaught of assurances in his own head screaming that he was going to fuck it up, he’s was going to lose focus, he was going to go careening off the road _again-_

“You did good.” Being slapped probably wouldn’t have put even half as dumb of a look on his face as Charon’s praise did right now. Hermes searches his face for any sign of insincerity, certain he joking, but he finds none as Charon leans his lower back on the trunk of his car, pulling out his cigarette case from his pocket. 

“Might be a stretch, least from where I'm standing but, um," Hermes kicks a rock, sending it skittering past the car. "Thanks." He means that, hoping it's conveyed in his tone. "Tomorrow work for you?” 

Charon nods in the affirmative cupping his hand as he lights the fag between his lips, the little dancing flame painting a hellish gleam across the knot of scars that span the right side of his face in such a way that Hermes breath catches strangely at the sight. Charon flicks the lighter close, snuffing out the fire and Hermes tears his gaze from that mouth as the man takes his first drag. 

“Ah, fantastic. Absolutely wonderful, um," Hermes says after a moment, voice hoarse. He wanted to ask something, but for the life of him, he can't think of it, wracking his brain until it hits him. "So are you, by chance...going back to your boat straight after this?” He wants it to sound innocent, coy, but Hermes gets the distinct impression he just comes off as strange. And it’s only in the intervening moments as Charon considers him, the fading edges of light from the streetlight behind and to the left of him casting a striking shadow off the sharp edges of his cheeks, that Hermes has the stunning realization he might take it to mean he’s being asked out. 

Charon lifts his wrist slowly, deliberately, checking his watch despite the fact that the scant light could not possibly be enough for him to read it properly. He nods as if coming to a decision, low noise being made in the back of his throat as he drops his hands, the quiet push and pull of the sea close by. 

“You got ten minutes.” He signs, before hooking his thumbs in his pockets, pushing off the car, and walking away, long strides making the distance between them and the shop comical. For a moment, Hermes does not register it, just blinking stupidly at the space Charon leaves before his words make themselves known to him, their particular insinuation bringing an ear splitting grin to his face.

“Alright, perfect!” Hermes starts, already cheekily taking steps in the direction of the docks. Charon shoos him with a hand, keys jingling and unlocking his shop. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow then!”

He’s off, faster than he’s been in years the moment the door has closed behind Charon, feet pounding on the dock, one question in mind to be hastily scribbled on the new side of the increasingly cramped note against the white fiberglass hull he’s come to know too well:

_What other sneaky little rumors do you have banging around that head of yours? - H_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not responding to chapter 10 comments as I really needed to get this out today. I will make an effort for any made on this chapter, however!

By Saturday, Hermes is doing pretty good, he’d think. He hopes. Could ask Charon, but that’s a little needy in Hermes' opinion, so he’s going to go off context clues, thank you very much.

It’s getting easier, at the very least, every hour spent disquieting the anxiety more and more as the old comfort he used to find in driving begins to return. Even just doing so in town, the streets and turns and corners already familiar to him from his jogging, it can be swaddling, this act of merely driving without destination in mind, in the stillness of the car, in the soft something playing through the tinny disused speakers of the radio, in the blur of buildings and mailboxes and trees passing in the night by the window where vision is limited to what the streetlamps and the cone of the headlights reveal.

That's the thing, isn't it? The lackadaisical pace necessary within the limits of a small town, lest the singular cop on patrol finds him guilty of a traffic violation, engenders an ease within him. The town is fine. It's few streets are fine. There is a set expectation that everyone is going and an enforcement of rules to be followed. There's more going on, more demanding focus. 

But every time they pass the turn onto the highway, there’s a pang, a seeping cold that has him swallowing down the dread as he tries not to think of it. Charon has suggested it a few times, but Hermes shoots him down, carefully avoiding it with a ‘not today’ or ‘maybe later’. Charon has let it go, but Hermes knows it’s coming, when he’ll have to face the music, so to speak. At least he’ll have someone here with him.

Which is fantastic. Having another person around has only made this transitory period between abject panic and confidence smoother. With Charon by him, he has to act calmer than he feels. He has to be more careful than he would ever be. He has to focus more, drive better, be better, that implicit expectation of him becoming more comfortable never stated but always there. He has a goal to reach, and someone nearby to make sure he reaches it.

On top of that, it’s just good to talk, even if the conversation is extremely one-sided.

“Never seen a man run so fast in his life, mind you, which is very odd now that I think about it considering my sport of choice.” Hermes espoused as they turned onto the street in front of Charon’s shop. Next to him, Charon is as he always is, marble-esque to the untrained eye and a man of extremely few words. But there’s a tell when he’s listening, a tilt to his head, a quirk to his lips, a twitch in his hand. Sometimes he’ll make a noise, sometimes he’ll nod or shake his head, sometimes he’ll do nothing at all. 

There’s still an underlying worry he’s annoying the man, of course. Hermes had asked, timidly, baringly, if Charon wanted him to shut up on Thursday, still a writhing ball of discomfort and self-flagellation, still unable to keep his foot on the gas for more than a second or two. He’d been certain Charon would tell him yes, but under the shivering leaves of the large oak that hung over the street at the park when Hermes had stopped them to shake his still stiff ankle, Charon does as he always does: surprises him. 

“Don’t mind the talking.” He had signed, folding his fingers back together over his stomach, where he half sat, hat off as has become custom. There’s something to be said about distractions and the long lines of his form and off-hand musings about whether Hermes could fit were he to cross the space between them and straddle the man’s thighs. 

“Y-you sure?” He went a little shrill when he had said it, flabbergasted expression only reeling further when Charon nodded to the roof. “Huh.” Hermes had stared out the windshield, a rabbit bolting across the street at the edges of the headlights. He had put his foot on the gas, shifted the gear. “That’s a first.” 

So as they rolled into a park in front of the shop yet again, the windy Saturday evening fighting Hermes as he shuts the door, the overly-exuberant slam ringing throughout the empty dark street, there’s a certain excitement in him, a bubbly sort of thrill at his progress and that, tomorrow, they would be doing this again. Strange to be looking forward to something so mundane, but, hey, that’s his life now, he guesses.

“Same time tomorrow?” Hermes asks as his companion stands up, closing his own door, assured in the answer and floored when Charon shakes his head as he catches the keys tossed his way. 

“Five tomorrow.” He signs, nonchalant, uncaring, pocketing the keys, and Hermes is quick to wipe the surprise off his face for a cheeky grin. 

“Really?” Hermes rest his arms over the roof of the car, having to stretch to rest his chin on them. “You’re a relatively strict man, very set in your schedule. Got plans tomorrow night?” 

If it comes off flirty, Hermes hopes to God Charon doesn’t notice, regretting the lilt to his voice as he says it. They’ve got a good thing going right now, even if it’s only been a few days. He’d be gutted if he ruined it. 

Because he is getting more comfortable, not only on the road, but with Charon being around. He’s less nervous, he’s found, less jittery and spastic, not constantly worrying about making a fool of himself in front of the man. The edge has been taken off of whatever this infatuation has been; yeah, he thinks Charon is attractive in a way, but he’s not falling over himself about it, now is he?

Charon doesn’t look at him, or at least he appears not to from behind his sunglasses, pulling out a cigarette as he has the last three times they’ve ended their ‘lessons’. The metal of the car roof is warming under his arms as Hermes appreciates the sight of Charon’s ritual in lighting the fag and taking his first drag. 

“You’re taking me to Elysium.” He informs after a moment, and the smile on Hermes’ face falls in an instant. 

Oh.

Oh no.

* * *

Hermes spends most of Sunday just waffling about, stuck somewhere between dread and self-assurance and bouncing between the two as the hours melted way with nothing done. He made a valiant effort to at least appear busy, to at least try and do something, but, as is often the case when something he’s dreading is fast approaching, Hermes finds himself stuck in a paralyzing sort of start where he just stares at a wall for a while, trying not to think about it. Can’t even go for a run still; whatever weak muscle he pulled needing another day or two.

He just can't stop worrying about it. Driving in town in the early evening when the roads are mostly empty and the speed limit is 30 is one thing. There’s control. There’s frequent stops. There’s a limit to what can happen as the world in such a space is small and rigid, predictable. 

The one lane highway to the city of Elysium is a whole other story. A long, empty beast with miles between you and help, nothing but lines between your vehicle and the oncoming traffic speeding past one another as the cars behind clamor for you to go faster and faster. It's something he used to love. Now, he'd much rather just walk into the ocean and never return. At least then he's drowning cause he chose to and not because he ran off the side of the road into a lake or something. 

So to say he’s a little on edge as he walks down the street, nodding to the fishing shop owner as she cleans her front door, dangling anchor earrings dancing madly as she wipes down the glass, is a gross understatement at best. 

It’s picturesque out today, something you’d see on a postcard sent to the in laws or a grandma you rarely speak to; the sky as blue as can be and veritably endless, the breeze blowing the tops of the trees about and sending their green spring leaves into an attractive shiver, the sun warm enough to warrant the shorts and the sleeveless top he wears (not that it shows off his legs or arms or anything, it’s just a warm day and he will stand by that in court), the sea rolling gently, and the people out enjoying it all. Hermes can just imagine how it would look from Charon’s- _a_ boat, the landscape a painting in the waiting. 

Come to think of it, he’s probably seen that painting when he went to Nyx’s…

In any case, the approach of the shop and the long boxy grey car parked out front is daunting in a terribly nauseating kind of way. The kind of way that makes a man want to turn tail, go back to his hotel room, call the shop from the tinny phone at his bedside table, and pretend he’s caught a cold within the last 20 hours since he last saw Charon. He’s not actually sure how Charon would communicate on a phone call, or if he ever does, but it is an inviting thought. 

The only thing that keeps his feet moving in the correct direction is the accountability, the undisputed distaste for causing disappointment in someone else. Another plus to having Charon help him is that the fear of doing something he really doesn’t want to do holds nothing to the sheer humiliation of admitting that fear to Charon. Thus, before reaching the door to the shop, he stops, adjusts his clothes, smooths his hair over from where the breeze messed with it, takes a shuddering breath that does very little to calm his nerves, and he enters the building. 

“Didja have to preen yourself before coming in here, pal?” It truly is amazing the capacity of not only Skelly’s selective hearing, but also his selective eyesight. He'll conveniently not see a line of customers standing right in front of him, yet Hermes takes a second to sort himself and Skelly is on it like a mustached hawk.

The balding man is where he always is, shoes up on the glass counter, leaning back on his stool, nose-deep in some magazine with a bikini model on the cover. The clock overhead reads 4:46, and with Charon nowhere to be seen among the shelves he towers over, Hermes is well aware he’s early. 

“Wonderful to see you too, Skelly.” Hermes starts with a tight smile. “Lovely day outside. Might I ask, don’t you have work you need to be getting on with?” Floors are a bit sandy, there’s a few empty shelves, fingerprints on the glass door and the counter and Skelly licks his thumb, flipping the page. 

“Nope.” He’ll never understand why Charon puts up with him.

Hermes leaves him, grit slipping irritatingly on the old wood beneath his trainers as he wanders the shelves, just looking for anything to stare at to pass the time, to keep his mind off he’s going to be doing in fifteen minutes. Nothing is new on these displays, the same cans, the same household objects, the same basic produce. Some soup. Cake mix. Load of cereal.

Hermes enjoys a bit of cereal. Difficult to get a hold of at the hotel because the kitchens are under lock down at the moment with the restaurant and everything. Wouldn’t be a problem if he had his own place of course. He's been having lots of idyllic imaginings of getting an apartment or renting a beach house if he gets the mailman job, fanciful ideas of not being woken up early by screaming children and no large imposing uncle glaring at him every time he decides to spend some time lounging on the couch. 

These fanciful thoughts always comes tinged with reality, though, shattered by an intrinsic understanding he hates to admit. The truth is that he needs the job first and if he can’t drive on the highway, he’s probably not going to get the job, but to drive on the highway, he needs to _drive_ on the highway, and he can’t do that, but he is doing that in ten minutes, and, oh God, maybe he should just go back to the hotel, call his dad, and beg for a plane ticket back home because being guilt-tripped over his burdensome existence by his father and step-mother for the rest of his sad miserable life is more palatable than maybe getting into some kind of accident _again_ -

Which is precisely why Charon finds him staring wide-eyed at some cornflakes as if he’s going through war flashbacks a few minutes later.

“Sorry, what?” Hermes blinks back the swell of maybes and could-bes, having just barely missed whatever Charon had just said to him. 

“Ready?” He asks again, domineering over Hermes yet at least appearing mildly worried. He’s wearing that nice black button up today, bit of his chest shown off under the requisite loads of gold chain. Hermes swallows, trying to think nothing of it. Must be needing to do laundry. 

* * *

Should be simple. Easy. Same thing as before. Just like driving in town, just faster, emptier.

The diver's seat has been nothing but comfortable for the past three days but right now, as he sits at the stop sign, blinker having been indicating a right turn for a few minutes, he might as well be sitting on nails, hyper-aware of every imperfection in the fabric under his knees and the leather of the steering wheel in his palms. Charon's not reclined at the moment, attentive either due to Hermes clear discomfort or just because they've feasibly got a destination, Hermes isn't sure. 

"It's fine, yeah?" Hermes says, mostly to himself, tapping the gas with his foot and the gear shift in his fist. "It's all going to be fine. Perfect day for it. Driving. Going places." Beside him, Charon grunts in affirmation, putting his arm round the back of the driver's seat and Hermes takes the turn.

The highway to Elysium is much like the roads in town; old, cracked, perpetually dry as if age saps whatever moisture touches them instantly, a testament to the state's inability to allocate proper funds toward infrastructure. It is hugged by fields of long grasses and foreclosed farms, their pastures taken by the overgrowth lending a sense of continuous nothing stretching for miles among the gently sloping hills beyond. Somewhere, miles away, lay their destination, but Hermes isn't thinking of that right now. 

He needs to go faster, the sign indicating a limit of 55 coming and going. It shouldn't be this hard. He’s done this for hundreds of hours. Shouldn’t be any different now, just rolling down the highway, foliage and weeds passing steadily. Nothing's going to happen.

He shifts the gear, speeds up, speedometer hitting 40. A car passes him on his left. It’s fine. 

It builds though, the droning he can't keep ignoring. By all accounts, he should be fine, they'll be fine, the highway is clear as he continue to pick up speed and he's as aware of himself as he can be. But all it takes is one slip, one second of lost focus, one blink, one deer jumping out of his periphery, and he's right back to where he started, probably even worse-

He’s breathing, right? His hands are gripping the steering wheel as though if he wear to slip, the car would jerk wildly out of his control. Charon is saying something but he can’t even look at him; taking his eyes off the road is too much.

He needs to stop thinking about it. Needs to stop thinking in general. It’s just driving. Used to do this for fun, even. Visibility couldn't be better as Charon must've recently washed his vehicle. There’s barely a car on the road with them, and yet Hermes can’t stop thinking, can’t stop picturing-

He pulls off onto a back road, car jumbling over the fresh gravel laid not a week ago it seems, and throws it into park. There’s a crack as the door swings open, Hermes jettisoning out into the open air, stumbling over the loose rock, putting as much distance between himself and the vehicle, the rocky terrain crunching under his hurried egress. He stays on the lane though, stopping just short of the long verdant grass that bends gently toward him in the whispering breeze.

In the distance, a farmhouse and its silos can be seen, long dilapidated and abandoned, and Hermes rubs both hands through his hair furiously, as though he’s trying to shake the ridiculous thoughts out. He wants to run. He wants to hit something. He wants to scream, kicking a bit of gravel into the field beyond, watching the loose rocks disappears into the encroaching weeds and grasshoppers bounds away.

He kind of does scream, squatting down just to stop himself from just gunning it, but it’s more of a pathetic growl lost directly to the white-grey gravel beneath him. His knee is aching, even without having done a damn thing today, the intrusive memories of what has been, what could have been activating the frayed nerves like a live wire. 

Why can’t he do this? What’s wrong with him that he can’t take a simple drive down the highway in the best of circumstances? It used to be so easy. They barely got five miles out of town. Nothing’s going to happen-

But it might. It always might. It always can. And if it does, he’s certain he won’t be as lucky as last time. 

Charon’s leaning against the hood of the car when Hermes finally stands up, all long lines and broad strokes, fetching in his dark clothes and gold, the wind giving life to his dull pale locks under the shade of the wide brim of his hat. Hermes returns dutifully, watching the ground under him as he does so, the initial shock of irrationality wavering into cold humiliation. Charon says nothing at his approach, thumbs hooked in his pockets, a cigarette having found its way to his mouth, the picture of indifference as Hermes sits himself onto the hood of the car, the grey painted metal almost burning on his bare legs. 

He brings his knees up, wrapping his arms around them and pressing his forehead to his skin. Charon answers his sigh with one of his own, and Hermes looks at him, well, at the gold hanging round his neck, cheek to his leg. The sun is warm on his shoulders, but he finds it as intrusive as the chirping the nearby birds at the moment, too out in the open in his shame to find any real joy in these details.

“You okay?” Charon asks after a while and Hermes laughs, hollow and bitter, placing his chin on his forearms. He should've never asked Charon to do this, should've never put him in this situation.

“I dunno.” He says, considering the grass bowing to the command of the breeze and the sparrows hopping about the gravel curiously. “Thought I’d be better with this by now. Been two years. Think it'd be long enough.”

Charon makes a thoughtful noise to that. Doesn’t ask, doesn’t say anything; just waits and, like clockwork, Hermes finds words streaming out of him, tumbling to be freed.

“Got into a race with some friends, you know," He says, distantly. "A little in the bag, didn’t think much of it, happened all the time. Next thing I know,” He smacks his hands together to illustrate, “Right into a tree. Driver side came in, crushed my leg, had to have more surgery than you can shake a stick at....” 

He runs another hand through his hair, letting his head rest on his palm while he picks at a chip in the paint on the hood of the car. A little flakes off before he realizes what he’s done, revealing the un-polished metal beneath. He stops, flicking the insignificant crumbs of gray from under his fingernail and re-wrapping his arms around his shins, staring out down the endless dusty stretch of road before them.

“Was supposed to be competing in Montreal this summer but now I’m here.” Charon makes another noise beside him, acknowledging and contemplative.

It hurts to say, like scratching at something scabbed over yet still fresh enough to sting. A lot of things could be different right now. He doesn’t like to think about those things, because he can’t change what’s happened, so why dwell on it, but it doesn’t make it easier to swallow. Doesn’t make it any less painful knowing he’d be in a very different place right now instead of sitting here, making a fucking idiot of himself in front of a man he never should’ve met trying to get over a fear he never should’ve had to get a job he never should’ve needed. 

He just wants to move on from all of it...

The car starts, rumbling underneath Hermes, who jolts, standing as if burned. He looks around, shocked to see Charon in the driver's seat, having already adjusted it back to his standards in the interim. The man sits there, patient, hat on his head, cigarette smoldering in the gravel at Hermes' feet, unhurried as he is in all things.

How is a man that tall that quiet? More importantly, how far into his own wallowing was he that he didn't notice him moving? Hermes didn’t even see him walk around the car.

Distracted from the shame that had been building within him at his over-blown reaction, Hermes gets into the car. Charon waits for him to buckle in, immediately shifting them into reverse the moment Hermes is well and ready. As he pulls them out to the highway, a little music having been turned on humming out of the speakers, he is thrown a bewildered look from his passenger. 

Charon turns his head to look at him with his good eye, huffing at Hermes expression and going back to watching the road as they speed up, a bit of grin to his lips.

“You hungry?”

* * *

Hermes has been to Elysium twice now; once when he flew in mid-February, and a few weeks ago for a brief session of buying nicer clothes with Hades, which had been an abject disaster all around but it happened and it counts. It is, in a way, a very normal small city, large enough to earn that moniker yet small enough to be laughable to anyone who has lived in a place with a population of more than 60,000 people. The part of the city they end up parking in makes that figure even more laughable with it's small buildings, generous spaces, and barren streets.

The bistro Charon takes him to is tiny, a little tucked away nook of a place wedged between a sketchy looking law firm and a tobacco outlet that you could blink and miss. Despite this, the scant amount of tables crammed in together in the dimly lit dining room are nearly all full, old and middle aged men of all sorts deep in conversation, some easy and relaxed, other terse and threatening. When the door opens, none of the other patrons look their way, and why would they? This place has probably not seen a new customer unchaperoned by a regular in ages.

The staff seem to know Charon, barely blinking at his entry yet giving Hermes the side-eye as they step across the deep blue carpet to the only vacant table by the window. The waitress doesn’t even bother to ask Charon for his order when she eventually wanders over, just writing down Hermes' with an air of flippancy before snatching the paper menu from the dark red tablecloth irately.

Not the friendliest service he's ever gotten, if he's being honest. It's a bit weird, Charon bringing him here of all places. Seems a bit intimate, what with the minute about of surface area of the tables and Charon having to keep his legs at an awkward angle to keep from playing footsie with him, not that Hermes would mind. Would he mind? He's not really even sure at this point, watching a very round man jab his compatriot in the chest for some reason to stave off the mental image of Charon's legs boxing his in. 

At least he's not thinking about driving or having a fit on a back gravel road.

“How often are you coming here?” Hermes asks while they wait, tapping on the clear glass of water, trying to piece together exactly when Charon has time. Is it on Sundays? Would make sense given how uncaring the staff seem to be at his presence if he were that kind of regular. Does he always take this seat?

Charon shrugs, not having signed a thing since they first got back into the car, watching a ratty looking woman stalk by, gesticulating to herself. His hat is still firmly in place, even more obtuse in this small environment, but, again, no one has said a word about it.

“Ah, well," He sighs, sitting back and following the line of Charon's sight to a teenager flipping a sign outside of a dying antiques store across the street. "I’ll get it out of you eventually, I suppose.” One of Charon’s eyebrows raises at that and Hermes would begin a stammering excuse, but, thankfully, the waitress comes by to slide them their food.

It’s easy to get lulled into conversation as they eat, the general din of chatting in the bistro encouraging its occupants to speak to their lunch partner, even if said partner is, of course, silent. But never doubt Hermes ability to fill that empty space, doing what he did best which was saying whatever came to mind; the strange atmosphere of the restaurant, the little old gentleman in the corner and the two guys sweating across from him, his life before Styx Beach-

Some of it is personal, more than he should be: Charon isn’t his friend, he thinks, not in the man’s mind maybe, and he doesn’t need to listen to Hermes’ personal issues, but like a clogged drain finally breaking, he just can’t stop. To make matters worse, or better, depending, Charon almost encourages it, waving away any embarrassed apologies for saying something too private, like how he woke up part way through one surgery to put his leg back in order, or when he off-handedly mentions he hasn’t heard from any of his old pals since the accident.

Charon, for all intents and purposes, is simple to talk to. He offers no judgement, no real comment, just sits there and listens. Hermes tries to asks questions, he always does, but Charon answers are simple, stilted dead ends, easily thrown back to get Hermes on another tangent. In one way, he's aware of how selfish it seems, taking all the air for his stream of conscious style of chatting, and yet on the other, there is catharsis in it, something he'd all but forgotten as of late. 

They sit like that for a while, with only the waiter coming round every now and then to fill up any long abandoned drinks, their plates having been carried away ages ago. Patrons come and go. Few stay, just a table of geriatrics who have been laughing and gossiping amicably for longer than he and Charon have been around. It’s only when Hermes see’s how low the sun has gotten does he realize how long it’s been.

“What time is it?” He asks, mid-thought. Charon looks at his watch, signing half past eight, completely unbothered. “Shit!" He smacks a palm to his forehead, that teetering line between comfort and embarrassment finally falling over. "I carried on for that long? Your shop-”

“Skelly can close.” Charon is quick in his rebuttal. He doesn’t actually say Skelly, of course. He uses the sign for bald, which Hermes recalls Skelly muttering something about how ‘he thinks he’s funny’ when asked about it. 

“Should probably get going, still…” Charon nods, not emphatically or gratefully, but merely in a reserved agreement. Hermes excuses himself to the bathroom, the understanding that he’s just talked Charon’s ear off for two and a half hours starting to eat at him as he walks to the back, a few of his fellow customers watching him with a suspicious sort of interest. 

He's got to pay more attention to his mouth. He took up this man's whole afternoon with his problems and then whined about them some more to him. There's no way in hell Charon is going to want a single thing to do with him after this. Probably won't even want to continue the driving thing if this is how Hermes reacts to it.

He pauses washing his hands, the soap halfway rinsed from his tanned skin and swirling down the drain under the running faucet. Does he even want to continue doing them? That was awful, right? The panic, the fear, the thoughts drilling into him harder for every second he drove on the highway. Why would he keep doing it?

Hermes dries his hands, tossing the paper towel in the small black bin and chewing on the inside of his cheek. It's either get over the abject revulsion of driving a car or go back to his father, and, as he puts his hand on the doorknob to return to Charon, he's certain he'd rather keep throwing himself at it before he gives up completely. With or without Charon's help.

Entering the dining room once more, Hermes begins the arduous task of squeezing between chairs and patrons in the dimly lit place, only to be stopped by the sight of a rotund dark haired man in kitchen attire bent close to Charon, speaking rapidly. Curious, Hermes steps to the side away from the rest of the tables, watching as the man getting more frantic as he continues talking, Charon doing nothing more than listening, one hand on his leg, the other on the table, as resolute and indifferent as he could seem. Only, he’s drumming his fingers, slowly, on the tablecloth. Annoyed.

The man pulls back a little, staring down at Charon expectantly from behind his nose that's had to have been broken two times too many, handing him a pad of paper and a pen when he is gestured for one. Charon writes something, gives it to the guy, and resumes staring out the window, the hand on his thigh tightening just so. The man reads it, nodding and walking away which Hermes takes as his cue to return, Charon looking up as he does. 

“Ready to go?” Charon asks as he stands, the hard-line to his mouth softening as Hermes stops in front of him. He is monstrous in his full height, always stunning when he's been seated for a while yet comforting as Hermes answers affirmatively to his question.

Charon leads the way out, the wait staff waving at them as they leave. The cool air of the night is refreshing as he opens the door to the street, crisp and fresh in comparison to the warm stuffy atmosphere of the bistro.

“Who was that?” Hermes blurts it out the second they hit the sidewalk, barely having contained it while inside, much less out.

“Owner.” Charon signs, cigarette case and lighter already in hand. Hermes hums at that, falling into step with Charon, having to really stretch his gait to do so. 

“Didn’t seem very happy with you.” He notes, ignoring the scattering of teens passing them on their left. "What did he want?” Hermes doesn’t expect an answer, and, to no one's shock, never receives one as they return to the car.

* * *

Hermes has to wonder if the reason they pull into the drive-in theater located a ten minutes from town is because he muttered something about not wanting to go back to the hotel yet or if Charon just really wanted to see some B-movie at nine in the evening. Either way, Hermes isn’t exactly complaining. The thought of being alone in his subpar room with his tumultuous head isn't a very inciting. Exact opposite, actually.

To be fair, this isn't exactly better, though in a very different sense. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to be here. He enjoys a movie as much as the next person; loves a good movie and having a grand old time with some snacks and friends. Couldn’t imagine a better, more distracting way to waste a two hours or so on his Sunday after a minor panic attack. Except…

Charon is next to him, of course, having moved his seat back into his usual position when Hermes is driving: half supine, arms behind his head, hat off and on the backseat. He hasn’t said a word since they pulled in, just asked if Hermes wanted anything and paid for their tickets, ignoring the halfhearted protests that Hermes could pay for himself. He just sits there, still enough that he could be mistaken for sleeping if it weren’t for the few chortles the movie had managed to wrench from him. 

It’s been maybe thirty minutes since the film started, the tinny sounds of stilted dialogue and over produced monster sounds filling the car. On screen, actors play out their parts, scenes transition, a woman is very serious about something. The light broadcast off the screen from the projector casting strange shadows over them and the dashboard, flitting between eye-strainingly bright and barely discernible dark.

Hermes could not tell you what the movie was about. His head is full of all sorts of thoughts. Too many to put names to, snatched for a second or two before being released back into the turbulence swirling in him: there’s been a fair bit of nudity in this film, which is a bit awkward. Sure are a lot of couples around them, mostly young people looking for something to do before work or school tomorrow. Why is Charon doing this, extending their time together after Hermes was being what is essentially the worst kind of person to be around, upset about nothing and overly personal?

Hermes catches himself for a thousandth time surveying his companion out of the corner of his eye, ripping his gaze back to what’s happening on screen. A man wearing glasses and a lab coat sits at a desk, shuffling through papers. In the car next to them, the couple is getting a little too familiar. Hermes drops his eyes to where his left hand is scratching anxiously at the fabric of the seat, too warm all of a sudden.

It’s very nice of Charon, Hermes will say that, worrying his lip, running a thumb over the metal latch to the car door hard enough he might be rubbing off the chrome finish. Why do it though? Why buy him dinner and a movie? 

To be nice, he supposes. Hermes would do that for a friend, has done similar things. When one of his mates were upset, he’d drag them out to go do something, if just to get him to stop moping over a girl or a poor performance.

Are they friends? 

Hermes couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t fathom it. Trying keep Hermes around to keep his end of the bargain would be a better guess, cause otherwise he'd have to chalk up the time and gas wasted as a loss. Or maybe he really is just being nice. Charon is a kind man, beneath it all. Kind of why Hermes finds him so interesting. He’s strange, for certain, an enigmatic person with a stony exterior, but he gives food to poor vagabonds and takes his three little brothers to the diner for pie. And apparently takes nuisances who mess around with his personal property and stare greedily out for a movie when they get in over their head. 

Doesn’t mean anything. 

So why does it feel like it should?

The man in the lab coat is speaking rapidly to a woman who's bosom they've already seen twice for no real reason. Hermes can't hear what they're saying, or at least can't process it. Charon shifts next to him, dropping his arms to fold his fingers together over his stomach. The scene changes before them, the brighter lighting sending strange shadows over his relaxed companion, and Hermes can't stop himself from surveying it.

The bulk of burn scars on Charon’s neck are old, 16 years, long healed over, still discolored from the rest of his skin and still eye-catching in the way these things are. Do they still hurt, even after all this time? Is that why Charon is so stiff, methodical, covered, careful to ease the amount of ache by mitigating the possibilities it could be triggered? Why he's so careful in how he's positioned himself, both in the micro behind counters and stalls, and in the macro on his boat and his lonely apartment and his table by the window?

Hermes keeps staring even as the light off the projector swaps to something darker, doesn’t mean to, but there’s ideas like infections in his mind as he traces the meaningless curves and incongruent brush strokes within the old injury. He follows the mass of it down, stopped only by the gold on Charon's neck and the buttoned portion of his top. It must stretch beyond that, Hermes has to assume, well into his chest and shoulder and perhaps even his stomach. There’s a sense in him as he pictures it, a dread that he going to do something stupid; that the longer he sits here, in arm’s reach of Charon, he’s going to do something he’s going to regret. 

He feels like a frayed live wire; the need to move, to shift, to twitch zipping through him and yet no where to go. There's a heat crawling up his spine, awash in his stomach that has nothing to do with the still air of the vehicle or the warmth radiating off Charon's arm that is a hair's breadth away from brushing his own. Hermes itches behind his ear with his left hand, need to do _something_ building and building as Charon exhales in a rattling sigh beside him, the bit of his chest be can see lifting and falling.

It’s not that Hermes is impulsive- 

No, that’s a lie. He is. Extremely so. These little errant thoughts worm their way into his head and the next thing he knows, he’s taping an oar to the side of some guy’s boat or leaving him little notes in the dead of night because how else is the mute man supposed to answer all these questions he has?

“Charon,” Hermes starts, voice a whisper, barely even realized he’s moved his arm, reaching across the scant space between them as if in a dream. Charon's throat is invitingly burning where the pads of his fingers brush it, the flesh of the scar smooth unlike skin should be. Charon freezes at the touch, and Hermes snatches his hand away, aghast as it dawns on him what he was doing. “Sorry, I just… do those still hurt?” 

For a long _long_ eternity, Charon does nothing, head turned just enough that Hermes is sure he’s being considered. It goes on long enough he almost bolts, opens the car door and flees, a mixture of pure unadulterated humiliation and horror cutting coldly through the buzzing warmth of before. Why, _why_ did he do that?

Charon sits up, just a bit, purposefully lethargic, and he unfolds his long, gold banded fingers. Hermes is certain he is about to get hit, clapped for his bold intrusion. He'd deserve it, prepares for it as Charon reaches over.

He isn’t sure if that would be preferable to the way the pads of Charon’s fingers ghost over the beginnings of the long faded line on the inside of his bare knee, leaving something smoldering in their wake. 

“Does that?” Charon asks, hands languid in their signing when he pulls away. Hermes swallows as though the the flesh of his throat may crumple should he not.

“Sometimes.” He answers, breathless.

Charon nods once, the implicit ‘there you go’ clear before he settles back into his previous position, hands over his stomach once more, leaving Hermes burning in a way he can’t describe. 

He could not tell you how the rest of the movie went.

* * *

The ride back is tense. 

Or, perhaps it is only Hermes who is tense, uncharacteristically quiet, picking at the hem of his shorts as they roll into town. Next to him, Charon is lax and unbothered, one hand the top of the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. Hermes would give anything to know what he’s thinking. 

The moon is a crescent high in the sky, the clouds having returned to creep in over the blanket of stars as Charon stops the car just outside the parking lot to the hotel, clearly at the edge of where he’s allowed. Hermes holds back from telling him Hades is long gone, rarely staying past six unless he’s got a meeting or something, but decides it’s not the time. Instead, he unbuckles, letting the seatbelt flit back into place over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Hermes says, quiet, yet words damningly loud over the rumble of the engine, staring down at where his fingers fidget in his lap. Charon turns his head to him, fully, hands still in their place. “For everything today." Hermes glances up at him, seeing the reflection of his nervous twitching in the purple sunglasses. "Didn’t mean to freak out on you, or anythi-”

Charon waves him off before he gets going into his apology. Hermes exhales, thankful for it.

“We can stop, if you want.” Charon signs, before indicating the car to drive home his meaning. 

“No." There's a cold determination as Hermes says it, glaring at the dashboard as if it mocks him. "I need to get better, need to get over it, you know? Keep going, if-" He peers at Charon again, shy. "If that’s okay with you.” 

Brows raised in clear surprise, Charon agrees to that, signaling 'okay' but Hermes isn’t seeing that, isn’t registering it. Charon’s expression is neutral as he looks at him, relaxed, soft, yet Hermes can’t tear his eyes off the man’s mouth. The radio has been switched off, nothing but the distance sounds of the ocean and Charon's quiet wheezing breathing making to be heard as Hermes finds himself stuck, hand on the door latch.

They’re quite close, he realizes, eyes pouring over the thin stroke of his mouth and the unnatural shapes of the burns that mar it. It’d be very, undeniably easy to lean in closer, if he chose. He can still feel the bit of Charon he’d touched early, even such a light and swift brushing of his fingers against the man’s neck having left an impression, a spectre of what it was like, and in that quiet cab where the rest of the world has stopped existing, where it is just he and Charon, Hermes would quite like to know what that mouth would feel like, under his fingers, against his cheek, pressed to his-

“Right.” Hermes turns away, hot under the collar again and pulling the door latch open, need for distance, for space between them flooding him in an instant. He’s pushed one boundary tonight; he’s not trying another. Not now. Not ever. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

Charon nods again, having turned his face away, staring out past the windshield as Hermes gets out of his car, trainers scraping on the pavement. As the car pulls off after their stilted goodbyes, Hermes is left standing there, observing as the taillights become smaller and smaller down the lane to the shop, hands left hanging at his sides, heart thumping painfully in his chest, palms damp, something hollow and empty within him that is juxtaposed by the sickly sweet warmth clogging his throat. 

In the relieving lonesome cool of the night, he walks back across the parking lot, into the hotel, down the hall to his room, and as he closes his door, he touches his frowning lips with his left hand, sketching a different shape into them, wondering at the impossibilities he will not stop thinking on until the sun peeks its way over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take it. I'm tired of looking at it.

_Rumor for a rumor_ \- C

_What, no free samples for a repeat customer? - H_

_No. - C_

_Fair enough. The cook at the hotel has quite the interesting relationship with cocaine. - H_

_He’s always had that problem. - C_

_That doesn’t get me anything? Stingy. - H_

_Gotta bring me something new. - C_

_Alright. Fair enough. There is a rumor a certain security guard might just be more of a war criminal than my brother, which is a fair feat if true. - H_

* * *

The emotion Hermes gets when he receives the call informing him of passing the postal exam and that he will begin training for taking over for the town’s mailman on Monday is on a new level of elation he’d never expected to feel from getting a job. It's a good thing the lobby is empty of guests as the display he is about to make would send them packing in a heartbeat as he tells the postmaster one last stuttering thank you. His knees almost give out, leaning heavily on the front desk as he hands the phone back to the girl, her grin only matching his shuddering sigh as the weight of the past month leaves his body. 

“Congrats.” She says, chomping her gum and holding up a hand for a high five. He meets her, smacking their palms together before he slides to the floor onto his back, covering his face with his hands and letting a noise of pure, unadulterated respite. A noise that, should one think about, could also be related to something a chimp would make. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Hermes lets his arms fall to the well-worn carpet beneath him, blinking stupidly at the white ceiling as he digs his fingers into the rough fibers, upsetting any sand that has been buried in there over the years. “Not to be a bother, but if you could just tell people to step over me if needed, that would be very appreciated. May be here for a while.” 

The days had slid by, still meeting Charon night after night for driving 'lessons'. It took another week of being on the highway for Hermes to make it to the city and back without pulling off to a gravel road for a few minutes to calm his nerves. The noise he made when he stepped out of Charon’s car after his first round trip with no breaks, no stops, no babbling panicking (alright, a little of that) probably woke up half the town, and he may get some kind of citation for it, but in that moment, Hermes really couldn’t have cared less. 

He’d nearly hugged Charon when the man straightened as he left the car, watching the fanfare of Hermes crowing into the empty street with a mild amount of amusement. He’d say almost because Hermes had the thought, which can be enough at times, but instead he just sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, grinning like a right idiot. The ‘good job’ Charon signed to him was plenty. 

What happened next was a race-line to the finish. A few more trips in the car, totaling to 15, (a number Charon was very pleased to remind Hermes of), then the application, the stuffy interview in the tiny little post office with the postmistress who is a rotund woman in her mid-40’s (who seemed capable of either being the loveliest woman ever or an ogre capable of rending Hermes in two and he personally hoped to never find out if it is the latter), the postal exam, and then the wait. And with the end of April and the end of his funds fast approaching, this call could not have had better timing.

He’s got so much to do: fill out some more forms at the post office, ask Hades for some kind of loan till he gets paid for the first time, open a bank account, tell his father the good news later tonight after business hours... But for now, the biggest hill has been crested. He can lay here for a minute.

Or 70. 

Deep violet heels shinier than gold come into view to Hermes' left, draped in a dress of matching finery that sashays as it's owner comes to rest. Oh God. 

“It would be my sincerest hope that you would reconsider such a plan of action.” Hermes is on his feet in a second, blood rushing uncomfortably to his head as he straightens to more proper posture in front of the ever imperturbable Nyx. Sneaking about must be a family trait, because Charon can be quiet as a fox and her moody 11 year old just appears behind Hermes at times, glowering yet clearly delighted when Hermes yelps at his sudden materialization. “There is a certain decorum that I expect from you.” 

So that’s why Hades is hiding in his office this morning. Hermes forgot she was in today, gliding about the halls, checking for minor inefficiencies and downed appliances in preparation for graduation in a few weeks and the start of the summer stampede. He’s been doing pretty well avoiding the hawkish woman in all her finery, keeping well away from her judging gaze.

Ah, well. All good things come to an end, he supposes. 

“Good morning, ma’am.” Hermes starts, straightening his clothes. The front desk girl has found herself with some cleaning to do very suddenly, always keeping the duster around just in case of Nyxian emergencies. “Lovely weather we’re having.” Outside, the trickle of rain patters lightly against the overhang above the front doors and Hermes inwardly winces. She eyes him, a little twitch in her sharp pale cheek.

“While I have grown accustomed to your various dramatics within my lobby,” She gestures him away from the front desk as a guest wanders over to check out, and Hermes follows dutifully when they end up in next to the foyer couch. The front desk girl greets the guest with all the gusto she can muster, nervously flitting between keeping eye contact with the man and making sure Nyx isn’t glaring at her less than stellar customer service. “Please do not leave me in the dark as to what has brought on this most recent one.” 

“I’m…” Is she going to be happy about this? Couldn’t really imagine it but there’s not much she can do at this point. Might as well break the ice now as opposed to when he's actually delivering her mail. “Going to be the new mailman.” Her brows raise just so, her crows feet lessening and Hermes is smiling despite himself. “Just got the call. Passed the exam. Didn’t know you had to take an exam, but it wasn't too bad, all things considered...” 

Nyx's generally stiff shoulders droop at he trails off, the hard line of her plum lips becoming less so. Her hands are folded, resting under her slim stomach as they always are, and her back is straight, neck high in a prim picture of what a woman of her status should be, but this is perhaps the most relieved he's ever seen her. It has to be a trick of the light.

“I had heard rumors that you had an interest in replacing our aging postman, though I will admit to not expecting you to actually commit to such an endeavor.” Behind them, the guest argues over a smoking charge, demanding evidence for such a fee. Unbeknownst to him, the front desk girl is in her element, calm and reveling in his upset. 

“Uh, well. Kind of a shock to everyone, if I’m being honest.” Hermes rubs the back of his neck, bashful as he is being honest. 

“Well,” She bows her head just so, her usual cold demeanor melting to something congratulatory for just a moment. “Seems as though you will be staying in our town for a while longer. Will you be continuing to lodge with us then?”

“No, not for much longer. Going to… Oh-" Hermes blinks. "I need to look at apartments, don’t I?” He ends in a laugh, not having thought about it as more than an elusive concept. 

He’s never lived on his own before. Never had his own place. He’s always been surrounded by people, whether his mom or father or school mates in dorms or mansions or summer homes or this damnable hotel...

Hermes has thought about it, quite a lot over the past few weeks actually, but in a nebulous sense. The same way that one thinks about walking on the moon or finding a leprechaun or kissing the local weird boat guy who keeps enabling your bad habits. It's been a fantasy, a pipe dream, intangible as it is ridiculous yet coming to fruition all the same. 

“You’ve quite a lot of work ahead of you.” It has to be a trick of the light in the overcast day, because he could swear there was a smile burgeoning on her lips as the guest's voice raises to a breaking point. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

* * *

Nyx isn't wrong; Hermes has quite a bit to do, most pressing being the forms needing his information and signatures at the post office and then calling his father tonight to tell him not to send plane tickets just yet. The apartment thing can come later after all...that. He resigns himself to wait till the rain lets up to go into town, sitting in his room, caught somewhere between staring out impatiently at the drizzle and going over the ASL book he’s practically bought from the library at this point. 

It’s not that he needs to practice it or anything. Charon isn’t hard of hearing, even in his bad ear, and it’s not like Hermes’ voice is giving out any time soon, but there have been times Charon has said something and either Hermes didn’t know the word or just couldn’t remember it only for it to come to him seconds before falling asleep. When asked to clarify, there’s a 50/50 chance the man just _won’t_ , either out of his sense of posterity or he just thinks its funny when Hermes is dying to know something, so brushing over things isn't a bad idea. Plus, if he’s going to be doing crime sort of, and if they need to communicate, it might be better in ASL. Maybe. 

Of course, the book finds itself tossed onto the chair with the snorkeling gear Poseidon sent him a few days ago when he realizes he’s been signing ‘kiss’ and ‘date’ and all manner of variations of ‘would you like to’ into the mirror kind of thoughtlessly. Perhaps a few other more presumptive questions were being played around with as well that he's not giving any credence to and since he doesn’t really need to ask Charon if he wants his dick sucked, he decides that his time is better spent anywhere but his room. He's got to tell Hades about calling his favorite brother tonight, anyhow.

He realizes it’s stopped raining sometime around two in the afternoon after he'd bothered Hades and Achilles for a sufficient amount of time. He sneaks past Nyx and and his uncle having another row about the air conditioning and hits the empty wet streets, intent on the post office, but knowing he’ll take a little detour. The spring chill of the post-rain air has him wondering if he should turn back for his jacket as he mindlessly steps in a puddle, grimacing as it splashes up the leg of his trousers. There's some branches from the nearby elms loosened by the wind from the night before that he steps over as he decides against backtracking; the sun is peeking from behind the thin grey clouds, promising a juxtaposing warmth soon enough.

It’s only natural to want to tell absolutely everyone his personal good news. And by everyone, he specifically means the four or so people he’s come to regularly interact with. Which is why he barrels his way into the diner during the afternoon lull, disturbing the waitress with her ever growing stomach, the one ancient man who comes in for coffee every other day, and, of course Eurydice and her husband who has taken to haunting the corner of the summer seating section. 

“What’s got you so up in arms, hon?” Eurydice questions, hair puffier than usual behind her head in the growing humidity from the evaporating rain from earlier. Hermes grins, stopping by the corner of the counter she comes round from the kitchen, smoothing out her worn apron and black kitten heels clacking on the recently swept linoleum. 

“Passed the test.” He says, puffing out his chest and beaming as her mouth drops open, eyes wide and the toothpick between her lips nearly falls to the floor. “Start training on Monday.” 

“Oh my God!” She pulls him in, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him within an inch of his life. There might as well have been no one else in the diner at that moment as he hugs her back, the smell of the fryers and her flowery perfume fill his nose as she rocks them back and forth excitedly. She pulls back, putting her hands on his cheeks with a delighted gasp.“I’m so happy for you, hell, for the whole town!” 

“Why is that?” Out of the corner of his periphery, he can see Orpheus watching them curiously from his selected corner, plucking a few notes on his guitar and Hermes put his hands gently on Eurydice’s wrists to free his face of her friendly grasp. The waitress stops by the one customer’s table, coffee pot in one hand and the other pressing into her back for extra support as she chats amicably with the old man who somehow makes the sluggish tottering walk to the diner despite his cane and his limp and Eurydice laughs lightly as she answers Hermes' question.

“Might actually get our mail on time.” She says as if it were obvious. Hermes grimaces at that, tugging jokingly at his collar, taking a step back. 

“Quite a bit of pressure to put on me first thing after getting the job.” He puts his hands up and Eurydice rolls her eyes. "Could be utter terrible at it, you never know."

“Don’t worry, hon.” She says with a wink, the growing sunlight from behind the clouds encroaching closer and closer to the back of the diner and highlighting the dirty wet shoe-prints Hermes had tracked in. He inwardly winces at that. He’s here enough; he should be better about not making more work. He’s offered to help before but Eurydice has smacked his hand at least twice for trying to grab a mop. “I’ll give you a few weeks before declaring you a total loss.” 

"Oh, well, glad to have your utmost c-" He's cut off, as from across the diner, the waitress yells to Eurydice that their 'paying customer' would like a melt today.

“One moment, Jeanine!” She calls back, before lightly touching Hermes’ arm and leaning in. Her expression is serious, something he rarely sees now that her husband is in town. “Listen, real quick, you’re going to the get-together on the 17th?" Hermes makes a noise, having nearly forgotten about that. "We’ll have to make an announcement about our new mailman.”

Oh.

There's a pang at that, juxtaposing Eurydice's delighted if not stern posture and the jaunty track playing over the radio. Hermes swallows, his throat thick quite suddenly, scratching behind his ear at the first wriggling of nerves begin. He really has been out of the limelight that long if the idea of a group of people all being told about him doing a thing and looking upon him with some form of expectation gives him pause. 

“Don’t know if we need to do that," People will talk. Eurydice will talk. All of Styx Beach will figure out he's got the job when the little shindig rolls around. Why make a big deal out it? He's just going to be delivering mail for a bit. "I mean, most of the town will know by then...”

“It’s a formality, hon.” She says, nudging him with her elbow, not catching his hesitation. “Get you feeling like you’re part of the town, since you’re gunna be calling this place home.” 

Hermes frowns, chest tight at her words in a way he can’t quite place. He makes another noise, wanting to say something, but unable. He’s not staying, not forever. The mailman job is just extending the time he has to figure out what he actually wants out of life, extending his time away from bumming around his father's house. It's not... his actual _career_ plan. He may be here for a few months, maybe more, but he’s not planning on living in Styx Beach for that long.

Right?

“You okay?” He must have made a face, Eurydice’s demanding joy replaced with worry at his faraway look. The melody over the radio drones out, the waitress' foot tapping getting more impatient.

“Yeah,” Hermes says, shaking his head, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’m… fine, uhh, that should- I think it’s a great idea.”

The waitress calls her again and Eurydice clacks away, sighing and stopping by the old man to tell him in an overloud manner that he 'doesn’t mind the wait, do you?’ as she squeezes his shoulders in a familiarity born of years of knowing each other. The man first startles until he realizes who it is, his face crinkling in glee, a ruddy pink color becoming evident in the bright mid-afternoon light, and he pats her hand with his own paler wrinkled one, agreeing that he has all the time in the world. She waves at Hermes as she disappears to the kitchen from behind the counter and he takes his opportunity to leave, the diner quite stifling at the moment. 

It’s hard to say why, he finds, trainers hitting the drying sidewalk casting a hopeful glance to the shop across the street. Skelly is behind the counter, tacitly ignoring a woman tapping her foot in front of him, which means Charon is nowhere near his shop at the moment. Definitely out on his boat, doing God knows what at sea.

Has he answered Hermes back yet? Will the observation about Achilles be waved off as well? Maybe he can find out tonight after the phone appointment when the boatman will be closing his shop and Hermes will throw open the door to inform him of his newfound employment and that their deal is officially on with the conclusion of Charon's part. Maybe Hermes can weasel his way into a pat on the head or a shoulder tap or a hug or something in way of congratulations. 

He shakes his head at that, childish in his wants. It is easier, though, to wonder about Charon, to be disappointed in having to wait to tell him the good news as he makes his way to the post office, something still cold within him. Sparrows flit away from their endless search for nesting materials along the sidewalk as he walks with his head down, fists in his pockets, and messenger bag thumping at his side.

It is good news, isn’t it? He was so certain when he got the call, but now... God, what is his father going to say?

It’s what he wanted, in a roundabout sort of way. Sure, it was a last resort sort of deal, but he worked for it, went through his own personal hell for it, spent a lot of time and made a raw deal to get here. It’s a steady job, pays enough, gives him ample time to figure shit out without his father's funding hanging over his head. And he'll get his own place for a bit.

A middle-aged lady tells him hello as she passes him, power walking with some weights in her hands. He nods back, having down this exact thing dozens of times to her specifically over the last two and a half months. The residents of the town have begun emerging after the rain, dogs on leashes and errands being ran, and several more greet him in the peeking sun of the afternoon with a familiarity he's come to know and enjoy, but today, it sits funny within him, crooked and ill-fitting.

Before, he had dreams of medals, of fame, of forging a name for himself outside of his family, _despite_ his family. Given the choice, he'd never even be here, taking on a job that is far beneath what he could be doing in a tiny forgotten town. Styx Beach is a nothing place where his uncle came to hide, but it could be a transitory space and Hermes can use as a springboard now that he’s found something to do in the interim. It’s not where he wants to be, but it is a stepping stone and he can be proud of that, even if it isn’t forever. 

Right?

* * *

At the post office, paperwork is paperwork, and Hermes finds no love in filling out several forms and waivers and tax documents and having to remember his social security number which has a curious habit of sliding out of his memory the second he recalls it. The postmistress is patient with him though, clearly relieved she’s suckered someone else into taking over the route so she didn’t have to while they scrambled to get the position filled. By the time he’s done, his hand hurts from holding the pen and the sun is starting to get low as he returns to the hotel.

The gnawing frozen hold in him hasn't abated. Hell, it only worsens as he knocks on the door to his uncle's office. Telling Eurydice or Hades or Charon or even Nyx is one thing. His father is a different story.

Hades is already on the phone when he is beckoned inside, face pinched behind his ridiculous beard and finger rubbing at his temple as Zeus’ raucous laughter can be heard even from across the desk. Hermes has barely taken a seat in the stiff grey chair before the receiver is being thrust his way, his uncle clearly not in any kind of mood for his brother. He takes it after a moment, put off by the warmth of the plastic in his hand and the sudden start of a vacuum outside beyond the walls of the office.

“Good evening, father.” He breathes, shifting. He’s already begun picking at his thumb with the nail of his pointer finger, dread writhing like too many worms in him, his leg bouncing in effort to stave off the energy.

“Hades is saying you found yourself employed!” His father crows, and Hermes just wants to throw the phone back at Hades who's gone back to what he always returns to in times of stress; paperwork. “Almost accused him of lying, but I decided it’d be better to wait before any baseless accusations.” 

“No, he isn’t lying to you. Just found out today." He was happy about it at one point, wasn't he? Feels so long ago but less than eight hours have passed. "Lucky that.” 

“Well, don’t keep me in the dark, my dear boy!” Hades has stopped his scratching with his favored black pen, listening as sneakily as possible. Hermes nods to himself, clearing his throat.

He could just lie, couldn't he? Say he started a business, or college, or became a doctor in the small amount of time he's been in Styx Beach? No, because then there will be questions, wants to visit, and the lie will peter out, making the truth more disappointing.

“I’m going to be taking over the postman position that’s opening up here in a few weeks.” The words tumble from his mouth, swift as if he's shoving them out of there, ripping off the bandage so to speak. "One step towards becoming a functioning adult, as it were."

Silence falls between them, the buzz of the overhead light and the roar of the vacuum outside filling the absence. Hermes can't breath as he waits, not wanting to alert his father to any doubt in his own head. If he speaks, he'll capitulate, talk himself down before he's even heard a response.

“Hm.” If someone had, at that moment, poured a bucket of ice over Hermes, it would not have chilled so thoroughly as his father’s thoughtfully disappointed noise did, embraced in the static of the long distance call. Hermes closes his eyes, exhaling as soft as he can. He knew this would happen. “How very… mundane, for such a child of mine.” 

He opens them again, sitting up, nerves singing to fix it, to say something. Of course his father wouldn't be happy about this. Why would he? They're Olympians, not civil servants. What a wonderful thing to hear on a Thursday that his son who could've broken records two years ago and who has everything going for him has joined the public sector.

“Yes, w-well..” Oh God, what does he say? “I-it’s steady work, isn’t it? " Anything. Anything at all to make it seem good, like he's doing Zeus a favor. "Won’t have to foot my bill for a while. Very good experience.”

His father says nothing to that, gone quiet again. There's a sting from his thumb, and Hermes looks down, having dug his nail into the meat of his finger enough to break a layer of skin. Not enough to bleed, but enough to hurt. He spreads his hand out over his knee, bouncing it harder.

“I just expected more from you.” His father says, finally.

“Ah, wouldn’t count me out so soon!” Hermes replies, feigning a happy-go-lucky air to make up for the pit that threatens to swallow him. Hades is still clearly listening and Hermes really wishes he weren't here right now. Doesn't he have staff to berate? “Not like it’s a permanent thing. Just until I get my feet underneath me.” He's not even sure what he's saying anymore, just babbling until something sticks. "Gunna keep on...keeping on, looking for more f-fitting opportunities, obviously.” 

“Hm!" That's a better noise and Hermes could melt from it. The vacuum has stopped abruptly, someone cussing loudly enough to be hear through the wall. "I suppose it has done you well being out of home and school.” Hermes perks up at that, his beseeching paying off. He latches onto it excitedly.

“Oh, absolutely, father. Been coming out of my shell, more energy than ever, a right nuisance to Hades-”

“And it would look better for you to have spent some time working in the dirt among the rabble…” Hermes holds back the snide remark about him delivering mail, not becoming a farmer. It wouldn't matter anyways. It's all optics to his father in the end. “Yes, I think this is good overall.”

The conversation ends soon after and Hermes hands the phone off as if it is scalding. The click of the receiver back in its nest is deafening, amplifying the knowing way Hades is looking at him, paperwork and pen having been abandoned for the time being. Across from him, Hermes thoughts are nonexistent, his head empty and frigid as the rest of him, a strange lack of emotion he’s felt only a few times before as he touches his left knee, rubbing it through the material of his trousers. Eventually, his uncle picks the pen back up, resuming his writing.

“I’m not sure what you expected from that particular conversation.” He rumbles, head bowed over his papers. His dress shirt is ill-fitting today, too short for his meaty wrists and bulging awkwardly at the shoulders.

Hermes plucks at a loose thread jutting from the seam near his calf, shrugging before sniffing and standing up to leave. The shifting of his clothes on the fabric of the chair is obnoxious as he does so and he mumbles a quiet thanks, crossing the scant space to the exit. He's already halfway out, not stopping when he hears Hades authoritative yet earnest congratulations, letting the weighted door click shut behind him.

* * *

Hermes had spent the better part of the evening in the restaurant, just watching the various guests come and go: the businessmen and their adulterous lovers, the elderly men and women on a church-sponsored trip, the one family of five with their home-schooled children getting a vacation in before the summer rush. When Hades went home an hour after the phone call, he didn’t even bother to tell Hermes off, leaving him to his thoughts he’s trying not to have. Hermes absconded as well after a time, needing the outside, needing the space, needing to be alone and something about the dark endless rolling water complimented that need well enough.

He’s worrying his thumb again, gnawing on the flesh to the side of the nail, turbulent as he stares out over the waves. He’s sat on the bank, just beyond the boardwalk when the beach grass ends and the sand begins overlooking the public portion of the beach cordoned away from what is owned by the hotel. The night is getting on, sometime past 10 p.m. he’d suspect but he’s lost track of the minutes that have slogged by him as he’s taken up residence here, lost to the gurgling of the waves pulling the sand in their march to high tide. 

It’s a bit indescribable, isn’t it? On this strange precipice between where he is and where he could be and where people- where he wants to be, so far gone from that, he hadn’t realized the distance he’d crossed in the time in between. It's hard to think about, he hates to do it, but he can't stop himself this time.

If he hadn’t gotten into the accident, if he hadn’t needed the surgeries, if he had recovered even better, more miraculously than the doctors claimed, he’d be training his ass off right now, sights set on the gold and probably banging around with his old mates. But that’s now how it worked out, did it? Kind of lost all that and now he’s…

Going to be a mailman for Styx Beach. It's a bit silly, isn’t it? What would his old coach think? His old friends think?

 _I just expected more from you_. 

Hermes drops his head between his knees, letting his hand fall from his mouth to his side. Yeah, so did everyone.

Above the crash of the water and the buzzing ruminations of his head, boot steps ring loud and clear along the boardwalk, familiar and steady in their gate. He doesn't know if he wants to hear them, but he can't help the fluttering all the same as he hasn't really spoken to the man in almost a week. Hermes turns his head, brow furrowed despite the closed mouth smile on his lips.

“You know, you’re getting quite good at finding me, I must say.” Charon’s got his thumbs in his pockets, cigarette halfway burnt at his lips, hat low over his head, and he looks down at Hermes with nothing more than his general vague apathy. He looms over Hermes as he always does, but it stopped being intimidating ages ago. Well, mostly. “What brings you all the way down here, my good boatman?” 

Charon gestures with a thumb over his shoulder toward his stand a few dozen yards down the boardwalk. It’s one of the few still up during this lull in tourism. Probably checking on it after the wind from yesterday and the rain today. 

He nods at Hermes, question obvious and Hermes looks back out over the ocean, shrugging. 

“Just... watching the tide come in, I suppose.” Is his answer, noncommittal, quiet. He tugs at the front of his shirt, self-conscious all of a sudden, before wrapping his arms around his knees. 

Charon looks at his watch, the face gleaming from the moon overhead and Hermes fulled expects Charon to leave him to his wallowing. Instead, to his shock, Charon carefully, methodically folds himself down to sit next to Hermes on his right. He brushes the grit from his palms, settling into a hunch, long legs hanging over the side of the bank and Hermes is silently elated as he does. He shuffles a bit, in an act of mirroring Charon’s position, stretching himself out to let his feet dangle in the empty air over the sand.

How long they sit like this, Hermes isn’t sure, silent as they observe the push and pulls of the waves, inching closer and closer to the bank. In the morning, the sands will be awash with all sorts of deep green detritus, but for now they are swallowed by the swell of the encroaching water. Neither move much, or rather, Hermes does not move much, prone to shaking a leg or tapping a finger or touching his own arm, while Charon is nothing if not still beside him, smoke drifting lazily from his cigarette and his radiating warmth welcome in the cool of the evening.

Hermes fights to bite at his thumb again, the disquiet of his thoughts having turned to something different with the added presence of Charon. It’s easy to be distracted with him around, even with the initial nervousness he inspired having waned significantly. All these ideas, dangerous in their suggestions yet persuasive in their content. Usually, they are lecherous, mired in his own personal lust, but tonight...

It's shocking the lack of effort it would take to shuffle closer and press their legs together. If he were brave, he could just move his knee a little, and they’d be touching. Charon would notice if he did that though, especially if Hermes leaned his head onto him, or some other fantastical thing that both innocent yet invasive. He watches Charon remove the hand he’d been eyeing, idly wondering what the reaction would be if Hermes were to take it in his own, to push up his sunglasses and rub the bridge of his nose and Hermes has to glance away, letting his left leg swing gently in the open air beyond the edge of the bank.

He’s gunna be here for a while now; he’s got to get over this if he’s going to be working with Charon, or at least doing things for him. He couldn't imagine being Charon and having this twenty-something idiot mooning over him. What a strange thing to deal with. He doesn’t even know if they’re-

“Are we friends?” He doesn't mean to blurt it out, regretting it as his unwieldy words cut through the comfortable silence. It's a question he’s never had to ask anyone, the answer implicit in the interactions he’s taken for granted over the years. With Charon though…

It feels like an assumption, an intrusion to think so without some kind of affirmation on the other man’s part. Hermes’ motivation is marred by a less than pure interest, as it were, hounded by a terrifyingly aching fascination no matter how hard he ignores it. Who is he to decide, after everything, that whatever their relationship has found itself to be could be labelled so flippantly as companionable?

Next to him, Charon pauses, releasing the bridge of his nose as if coming to some for of understanding. Hermes watches, enraptured as he carefully, slowly, pulls the sunglasses from his face. He folds it up with the care of someone who has done so a thousand times before, sliding them into his trouser pocket. 

He nods before settling his hands back on his thighs and casting a sideways glance to Hermes. Is it sincerity in his soft brown eyes or a trick of the ember burning away on his cigarette coupled with the half moon above them in the sky?

“Good! I- great.” Hermes fights a smile, lighter than the blackened clouds above back-lit in the silver light of the moon they drift lazily across. He could leap to the damned thing if he wanted right now, the fluttering in his stomach giving rise to a need to move, so unbelievably elated as he continues to stare out into the sea. 

They stay like that for a little longer, the weight that had found itself holding his tongue now lessened as he makes a bit of small talk. It’s nothing interesting, casual observations about the weather, asking after Charon’s day, wondering if the beach cleaners will have their work cut out for them tomorrow. Pointless phrases and meaningless questions to fill the space as he continuously finds himself flitting between the rising tide and what of Charon's now bare eyes he can see. 

It has to end though, this simplicity, when Charon checks his watch again, showing that it's near midnight and Hermes huffs in a laugh, making an offhand joke about talking too much. Charon helps him stand, pulling him to his feet with a strength that makes Hermes feel a bit faint as he sheepishly tries not to stare at the man's bad eye, its drooping scarred lid open just enough to reveal the milky iris beneath now that it is no longer carefully covered by his sunglasses. He's could always see some of it from the side, and bare to him now as he brushes sand off his trousers, wishing Charon a goodnight, it does little to affect his opinion of the man. 

“Oh!" He says, smacking his forehead as Charon turns to leave him, waves splashing against the bank. "I got the job, by the way." Hermes is smiling despite himself, a little giddiness from earlier having found its way back to him as Charon listens, expression plainly open and interested. "Not gunna be rid of me so easily, unfortunately.” 

Charon flicks his third cigarette of the night to the ground, stamping out and nodding to himself.

“Glad you're staying.” He signs, crossing the small distance between them before lifting his hand. It is all encompassing where it amicably pats Hermes' shoulder. 

Perhaps it is the late night after a day of ping-ponging emotions. Perhaps it's the comforting soft rolling of waves dampening his inhibitions. Perhaps it is merely Hermes' incapacity to not stop himself but he very much suddenly finds himself with his arms around Charon's waist, hugging him tight.

He smells like the sea, like his cigarettes, like his shop, like Charon as Hermes presses his face to his chest. For a second, Charon does nothing and Hermes nearly pulls away to apologize before he's being embraced back, gentle arms round his shoulders holding him in place. He does not know if Charon really is that warm or he himself was that chilled in the cool night, but he is burning from it as he whispers into the soft worn fabric of Charon's sweater:

"Me too." 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating has gone up, tags have been added, and this chapter could've used more work but its 11,000 words LONG SO HERE YOU GO-

Unlocking the door to the two-bedroom house he’d found for rent from a couple in Michigan who didn’t know what to do with it, Hermes throws the keys onto the kitchen counter, letting them land somewhere between a half-empty cup of water, another half-empty cup of water, and an unopened letter from his sister he’s planning on getting to. 

Eventually. 

The ad in the paper had described it as a 'beach home, severely underused', but with a full list of amenities included, meaning laundry and a working kitchen, Hermes couldn't really pass it up. While it's bigger than what he needs, the only other options were some apartments in Elysium for basically the same price, but without a car (and no real desire to drive on the highway literally every day and night), a place in the city is just not an option. He was offered the opportunity to just purchase the place when he called his new landlords two weeks prior but that nearly had him hanging up the phone. 

“Oh, no, not much interested in that.” He had said, as kind as he could, that knot of apprehension and his father's voice congealing in his stomach, “Not planning on staying forever.” 

A friend of theirs in town helped with the monthly lease agreement, handing him the keys with clear relief now that he didn’t have to keep checking on the place. Of course, there was an implicit warning about keeping it in a nice condition and that the friend would be doing regular checks to make sure he wasn’t throwing any wild parties and wrecking the place. As Hermes walks past his still barren, dark living room and into the bedroom he’s placed the secondhand mattress he’s been sleeping on for the past three days which he then collapses face-first upon, he couldn’t imagine anything he’d want to do less than throw a shindig.

It’s not that he’s physically tired. Hermes could go run a few miles if he wanted to right now, and barely break a sweat, but after 10 hours of sitting in the mail truck with old man Jerry, the soon to be retired postman, and his penchant for slow arduous conversations with the locals that go nowhere, his insane route that seems more focused on milking hours away from his wife than actual efficiency, and his inability to hear any form of constructive criticism, Hermes is more mentally exhausted from the sheer boredom of it all than he’s ever been before. It’s like his brain has been turned to soup, sloshing around sleepily in his skull as he listened to another blithe observation about the weather repeated ad nauseum to every biddy who greeted him and Jerry. 

It's a wonder anyone gets their mail. In fact, the only reason the letter sits upon his kitchen counter is because Hermes had plucked it from one of the white plastic crates in the back of the mail truck where it had apparently sat for two whole days. It's utter absurdity, which is what he called it when he ranted to Eurydice about the last time he went to the diner who had nodded along with the kind of air of someone who was realizing just how supremely correct she had been about everything.

Isn’t all bad though, Hermes has to admit as he gets back to his feet after a moment of just enjoying being horizontal in the quiet of his place. There’s a lot of walking involved if he wishes, and Jerry is officially retired in two days so he’ll be on his own soon enough. While Jerry has been doing most of the 'put mail in box from truck' sort of deal, he’s sent Hermes to do any on foot deliveries, which Hermes has not complained about because the first day he handed Skelly the mail for the shop had been a moment of pure unadulterated joy that he will remember forever.

“Who do I gotta complain to about this?” He’s never seen a man’s face so red when being handed a letter, practically frothing at the mouth. Charon had been leaning on his wall behind the counter at the time, shoulders quaking in his quiet chuckling when Skelly looked to him for help. “Ain’t no way am I agreeing to have this twerp deliverin’ any of my shit!” 

"Not to worry, Skelly." Hermes had said slyly, "I am a professional, believe it or not. No one will hear a peep from me about the amount of porn rags you order every month." Skelly had grumbled at that, grabbing the broom and shouldering past Hermes to go sweep the front sidewalk as his boss wheezed behind the counter, much to Hermes' delight.

He saw Charon today, actually, not even an hour ago. Not that that's unusual; he's been hanging out with the man the past two Sundays as it's a shared day off. They haven't done anything interesting either, just chatting about this, that, or the other thing, or rather, Hermes chatted while Charon did some maintenance on his boat. And, once he starts the mail thing for real, he'll be doing deliveries as well, whatever that will entail, plus they're still writing little gossipy notes-

Alright, so he see's and interacts with the man often enough, but it felt special today so, you know, get off his back.

Hermes had snuck away from Jerry as he chatted with the lady who owns the swimwear shop, grabbing the mail for the general store as a mumbled excuse, sun already getting low as he popped over real quick. Skelly was gone, the shop getting closed early for the night as Charon had one of his monthly dinner dates with his mother to get to. The last customer had just left as Hermes entered, juggling a few too many boxes and bags which Charon observed against his wall. 

He looked...nice today. Yes, nice was the word for it. Fetching, even, among his cluttered store in one of his nicer button-ups that fit his broad chest like a glove under the extravagant amount of gold chains. His hair had been washed too, it would seem, appearing softer, more supple and Hermes almost wanted to half-jokingly ask if he was going to see someone other than Nyx but he held back that little jealous question, knowing full well she expected a _certain level of decorum_. 

There had been a fluttering in his chest when their hands brushed as Charon took the mail from him, nodding in thanks as Hermes complained about Jerry and commented about only a few more days till he’s retired and Hermes gets his position and his own route and his own stupid hat which had granted him a small chuckle from Charon. He even asked the man if he was going to Eurydice's thing tomorrow, ever aware of his time running out as Jerry's dithering would soon be coming to a close and was elated when Charon answered in the affirmative, secretly glad for the excuse to spend more time with the man.

Hermes hums, standing over his mattress and staring down at the cacophony of sheets wadded up in the corner, too warm and too cold all of a sudden. He needs to do... something, the vague nebulous need for motion or an activity hitting him as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Maybe a shower as he cast a long glance to his open bathroom door, the notion of warm water inviting to ease the tension in his shoulders as he continues to cast disparaging judgements on himself for his intrusive infatuation.

He can't go one day without making a fool of himself, can he? It's a thought he has often, especially now as he pads across the wooden floor to the bathroom, mind made up. He should’ve been over it at this point, all things considered. Should’ve been done with all the butterflies and the longing gazes and the rush that comes directly after any time their hands brush or Charon lightly touches his back or shoulder to get his attention so he can sign a few words. He's not a teenager anymore, even if his libido thinks he is.

The water pressure from the shower-head is lacking at best but it warms up quick enough as he disrobes, clothes falling to the cream linoleum floor to be picked up eventually when he remembers. He still doesn’t have a hamper or a laundry basket, but Eurydice has already put herself in charge of the ‘helping Hermes furnish his place so he doesn’t live like a sad sack’ initiative, which he appreciates immensely. He's got exactly two plates, a bowl, and a spoon in his cupboards right now; he'll take all the help he can get.

Stepping under the spray, Hermes sighs, relaxing near instantly as the water sluices over his over-hot skin. He's got a lot of things to do tomorrow on his day off: some shopping around town, dropping off a check to Hades as a first payment toward the money he was loaned to get out of his Uncle's hotel, the party/get-together of all the business owners at the diner... Hell, if it weren't for the knowledge that Charon would be around at the thing, Hermes would be dreading it. He likes how his Sunday's have been going since he started working, thank you very much, and throwing a wrench in there for things like 'chores' or 'prior engagements to mingle with the townspeople' are allowed to be annoying.

Hermes frowns at himself, tsking as he lathers up his washcloth, the green brick of soap bubbling pleasantly under his ministrations. But are they annoying because his day off is lost to busy work and a social event he'd rather not be at, or is it because he can't spend time with the guy he's always spending time with? Hermes shakes his head to himself. It's got to be obvious to Charon that he's got this _thing_ for him, that he's pining like some kind of child after their schoolyard crush, constantly talking to them and bothering them, finding excuses to be close to them and touch them.

He'd like to touch him more. Like to touch him a lot, actually, if he could, with his hands, his mouth. Pull Charon into him, let him pin Hermes to the wall, cover him entirely. Press his knee between Hermes' legs so he can rut against his thigh, pleading for anything, _everything-_

Hermes freezes at a groan of the house settling, ripped from the fantasy blooming in his mind's eye, a heat coiling low within him that has little to do with the water. Soap swirls around the drain, the rush of the shower soothing, and as his heart calms back down from it's irrational panic at the assurance he is in fact alone, he continues scrubbing himself clean, a renewed vigor to the task as a the whispers of an idea come to him. 

Sure, it might be obvious, but he's not being weird about it, is he? No, he started this friendship off being weird. Charon probably thinks this is par for the course with him. Would have to if he keeps wanting to associate with him. So it's fine, so long as he keeps his boundaries, his distance. It's fine to look, to appreciate the figure the man presents, to take in the sight of him, so long as he isn't being overly lecherous in his admiration, and secretive in his wants.

And it’s fine to fantasize, to imagine a reality where there is possibility that Charon would lay his hands on him, would want to hold him in all the ways Hermes could wish.

Which is how Hermes ends up on his mattress once again, naked and on his back with his knees bent, awkwardly fumbling as he presses two fingers into himself, dick still getting into the swing of things for the night as he had been too excited by the realization he had a) time on his hands and b) no one who could possibly interrupt him. He doesn’t do this often, which he should, God, he should as he slides his digits in as far as he can, lube easing the way and muscles beginning to relax to the intrusion. He’s usually too hurried, too much to do or not do to actually slow down like this, racing to the finish in the most efficient way possible.

Jerking off isn’t an art, there’s no finesse to it, no intimacy in it. It’s a chore, designed to scratch an itch most of the time or to stave off boredom the rest of the time but tonight… 

Tonight, he has thoughts as he closes his eyes, forearm over his head, wanting to draw this out as he leaves his cock untouched and moves his fingers slowly, enjoying the squeeze around them and the phantom edge of something hotter as he purposely skirts around the edge of his prostrate. He licks his lips, breathing slow and thighs flexing. As always, his mind is chaotic, loose pictures and ideas coming and going, but now tinged with want as he tries to hold onto that thought: What would Charon be like with him?

What would Charon do if he were here now, if he were to happen upon Hermes splayed out like this, fresh from a shower and hair still damp as he lethargically slides his fingers in and out of himself, bare and spread for anyone to see, to touch? Would he just stand there and watch, looming over Hermes as his dick slowly fills out against his belly, head tilted in interest as he palms himself through his trousers? Or would Charon be rougher, demanding, pushing Hermes into the mattress and seeking to replace his hand with his own cock or even his own fingers-

He has to whimper at that, allowing himself just the barest brush against the very thing he’s been careful to avoid, muscles in his stomach jolting at the flash of electric skittering through him. The thought of Charon, slow, thoughtful Charon purposefully kneeling between his legs, one massive palm pushing Hermes’ leg further to slot himself between them as he pulls Hermes' hand away only to fill him is...something, for sure. Hermes breathes out, stuttering as his pulse, forcing himself to back off again, to not rush it as the fantasy cements itself. 

Charon’s fingers are long, would fill him with ease, driving into him until he was pleading for mercy. Or perhaps, Hermes thinks, shuffling a bit against his plain sheets to get a better angle and shivering when his forearm brushes his swelling cock, perhaps Charon would be slower, gentler, sliding in and out of Hermes languidly, lazily, hovering over him as Hermes breaks beneath him. He’d steadily take him apart, massaging his prostate until precome dribbled continuously onto Hermes' stomach and he begged for relief.

Hermes bites his lip, no reason to be quiet but the need ingrained in him still, desperate to follow the imagined Charon’s motions with his own yet struggling to do so, arms too short to properly reach as he strains. Charon would have no issue, settling next to Hermes' side, easily fucking him unhurriedly, watching at the man grinds back into his touch, desperate, needy. He wishes he could feel it now, Charon leaning over to greedily mouth at his collar, his neck, teeth dragging along his hot skin and his free arm easily pinning Hermes hands above his head to keep him from reaching down to his leaking cock, drawing it out. 

"Please," He begs to no one, jamming his own fingers into himself as far as he can, delirious as he grinds them against his prostrate, back jackknifing as he does so just get a little more pressure. The fantasy does so as well, Charon foregoing the languid fucking and instead all but kneading his digits within him, nose dragging up his neck, biting his ear, lips on the corner of his mouth-

He breaks from the fantasy, patience running thin and teetering on the precipice. He wraps his free hand around his aching cock as the fantasy Charon mashes their mouths together, covering him, fucking him, and he's gone. Hermes cries out, cursing as he sits up, spurting against his stomach as his orgasm rips through him, toes curling in his sheets in the wake of it's devastation. He rolls onto his side, whining when little over-sensitive tingles creep through him as he pulls his fingers out, panting into his pillow as his muscles twitch endlessly. 

Hermes laughs, just a little to himself as he grabs the still damp towel he left nearby, mustering just enough energy in his jellied bones to wipe his hands and his stomach clean before his eyes close again and he's fallen sound asleep.

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, sun filtering in over his face and the loud intrusive screaming of an ambitious yet lonely robin on the windowsill calling with all the care of a car alarm, Hermes is boneless against his mattress, face smashed into his pillow and drool drying on his cheek. It’s difficult to will himself out of bed, even with the bird singing in increasingly desperate tones and the light of the new day blinding from behind his eyelids. Might’ve been the best he’s slept in weeks, and there’s no shame in that.

Alright, there’s a little shame in it as he gets his feet under him, grabbing his clothes for the day out of his open suitcase as he is still without a dresser or even any hangers, cheeks burning at the idea of seeing Charon tonight. Why does he do this to himself? Actually, more to the point, why does he keep doing this to himself? He’d probably be over this thing if he didn’t constantly feed the beast so to speak, so why doesn’t he just stop? 

Lack of self control, clearly. Loneliness. Charon keeps instigating him, not physically but- well, no, kind of physically actually, doesn’t he? Hermes makes a thoughtful sound at that, tapping his index on the cardboard of the brightly colored cereal box as he grabs it from the cupboard and wishing he had some coffee.

Charon was rather blasé about getting hugged two weeks ago, waving off Hermes’ apology that had followed the second he’d realized what he’d been doing. And he has been fine with all the time Hermes keeps asking of him. And he took him to dinner and a movie completely unpromp-

Hermes blinks, staring vaguely at his speckled kitchen floor as he chews his corn flakes slowly, realizing a little too late as a bit of milk dribbles out of his mouth on his shirt. He grabs the dishrag to furiously wipe off the stain, the most mild of frustrations at that being there on his chest for the rest of the day. 

Charon isn’t- 

He’s not- 

That’s wasn’t- 

No, couldn’t be.

Could it?

Charon’s just nice, and weirdly okay with lonely guys who trespass and never shut up. He’s never made a pass at Hermes, never been anything but a gentleman when they’ve been alone together. It’s not like there haven’t been opportunities what with all the driving and time spent just around each other. 

Any other guy who’s even had an inkling of interest in Hermes would’ve already tried _something_ by now, so he can’t imagine Charon could be all that into him. To be fair, he doesn’t even know if the man is into men, let alone Hermes. Has nothing done anything indicate otherwise.

It’s a bug in his ear as he wanders the town, running his errands, consisting mainly of dipping into any yard sales for anything to fill his empty house. He can’t think of much else as he peruses white plastic tables covered in tat and boxes full of discarded and superfluous cookware. Could ask Charon, as casual as he can, maybe even bring it up in the note among the gossip they’ve been trading back and forth. 

_Random aside, but would you be interested in another dinner and a movie, but this time with the possibility of you taking me back to yours afterwards?_

Hermes grimaces at that idea as he pays for some hangers and a squeaky yet stable wooden chair, smiling kindly at the broad shouldered woman who hands him his change. He’d rather not completely devastate the thing they’ve got going now; Charon can make a move if he’s interested. A lot less risk in that avenue than just barging ahead like a moron, no matter how much he is dying to know. 

Stopping at a few more yard sales, he picks up a bit more flatware, towels, and kitchen utensils, his messenger bag brimming with the odds and ends as he makes a few trips back and forth to offload. The clouds above lend some relief from the stifling humid heat threatening to consume the town at every shy peek of the sun, but even still he is in need of a change of his shirt by the time he’s exhausted the few sales he could find. He almost went into the wrong house during the last round, still not completely used to the exact shade of vaguely orange his place is in comparison to the near identical homes on the same street, with their tiny garages and worn picket fences around their small lawns.

All the browsing and walking considered, including the half hour break at the cafe that turned into a full hour as he enjoyed the calm wind chimes outside the open door and the three chess games the barista played with an older patron, it is nearly 7p.m. by the time he makes it to the hotel to drop off his uncle’s check. It’s amazing how fast a day can slip by when he isn’t paying attention. The get together is starting soon, but Eurydice had already excused any tardiness, as it takes everyone a while to get there anyways, so he’s in no danger of facing her wrath if he’s a bit late. 

The front desk girl greets him automatically as he enters the hotel, the practiced customer service hello fading into familiarity as she sees who’s actually walking in. There’s no one in the lobby except them, as usual, and even though he’s only been living elsewhere for four days, there’s a certain wistful longing to come back. He kind of misses the noise of other people.

“Hello, hello, lovely day, have you seen my-” The girl jerks her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Hades’ office, going back to the book she’d brought with today as she obnoxiously chomps her gum. It’s good to see nothing has changed in his absence. 

“He’s kind of in a bitchy mood today.” She warns as Hermes comes around the front desk, shrugging when she catches his curious expression. “Something to do at home. I dunno. Not like he tells me anything.” 

Wonderful. He was kind of hoping Hades would be home so he'd could just leave the check and run. And by 'kind of', he does mean 'excessively'.

Hermes doesn’t bother to knock, entering the office with a dramatic greeting that sets Hades eye twitching as he picks up his pen which had flown over his shoulder. His desk is covered in papers and folders, all in several piles that makes sense entirely to Hades and no one else. It’s shocking only in that usually his uncle is gone by now, and to see such a mess must mean he’s in it for the long haul tonight. 

“First of three payments to you, my dearest uncle.” Hermes boasts loudly kicking the door closed and slapping the envelope onto the nearest pile of spreadsheets with a satisfying _wap_ , nearly upsetting the stack. Hades straightens, turning his office chair back around to face Hermes with a grimace and a glare. Amazing how in the scant amount of time since the last time he’d seen the man that he had forgotten the intensity of his disdain and how much glee could be produced from triggering it. “Never mistake me for someone who goes back on their word, no siree.” 

Hades takes the envelope without a word, opening it with one thick thumb, the ripping of the top violent under his ministrations. He takes his time in removing the check from it’s flimsy encasing, sniffing as he judges it.

“Very kind of you to lend me the money, by the by.” Hermes continues, drumming his fingers on the nearby chair, wishing he had brought his messenger bag to fiddle with but had thought it better to leave it at home. His trainers scruff the drab carpet under them as he knocks the toe of his shoe against the floor. “Kept me out of grovelling to my father once again.” 

“You forgot to sign the check.” Hades scoffs, holding it out to Hermes with a pen, barely having acknowledged his nephew since his dramatic entrance. Hermes turns a little pink, embarrassed at his own incompetence. 

“Ah,” He starts, taking the thing and shuffling some papers to get him a clear portion of the desk to sign on. Outside the office, the front desk girl greets a patron in an overly high-pitched manner, possibly embarrassed for having been caught unawares in her book. “Not used to filling out checks…”

“I’m more than aware.” Hades snaps, dismissive as he sits back, surveying Hermes with a critical eye that sends a cold sweat beading at the nape of his neck. Only Hades could make him second guess how his own signature is supposed to look. “Your father does little to teach his children anything outside of frivolity and a general disregard for anyone other than themselves. It’s a wonder your brothers have made it anywhere given his gross negligence.”

“Well, someday you can lecture me all you wish on the gaps in my education,” Hermes hands it back, straightening with a grimace, shoulders a little sore from all the tat he’d been carrying all over town. “But, unfortunately, can’t stay too long today. Got the party...thing at the diner tonight.” Hades rolls his eyes as he judges the check once more, nodding in satisfaction. “Are you going?” 

“Hmph.” Opening a drawer, Hades stows the check next to any others he generally takes to the bank on Wednesdays. The tellers of said bank apparently despise the man given his picky nature, and it was cathartic listening to them complain when he had to open his own account a week and a half ago. “I should think not. There’s nothing less than I’d want to do on my Friday evening than spend it with the blasted townsfolk.” 

“That’s a very long winded way of saying you’ve never been invited.” Hades frowns, or, rather, his frown deepens behind his frazzled beard and Hermes smiles innocently. “You can admit it, you know. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Secrets safe with me, dear uncle.” 

His uncle snorts at that, shaking his great head and picking up his pen once more. He really is disheveled today, isn’t he? Bags under his eyes, wrinkles both in his forehead and dress shirt deeper than ever, a pallor to his knuckles evident in how he grips his preferred writing utensil. Hermes would love to find out why, but if there’s one person who keeps his personal life a more jealously guarded secret than Charon, its Hades. 

“Please, even if I had received an invitation, I’ve better things to do with my time than _mingle_.” It’s Hermes’ turn to roll his eyes. He should leave; the clock’s ticking and he’s got places to be, but he can’t leave well enough alone. 

“But you _live_ here,” He continues, the twitch in Hades’ cheek worsening. “And it's all the business people in town, isn’t it? They’re your peers more than mine; surely you’d want-”

“While it is true I live here, it does not mean I must cavort with the people who make up this godforsaken town nor consider any of them my ‘peers’. A lesson you would certainly benefit from.” Hermes is taken aback by that as Hades crumples a paper he was working on and tosses it in the bin under his desk. What is he going on about?

“Hang on,” He steps closer to the desk in his confused excitement. “I’m gunna be the new mailman, ingratiating myself and all that. Better to get to know the people I’ll be delivering to than wallowing at home doing God knows what every night.” 

That gets his uncle looking at him, really looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows. Outside the office has gone silent again, and Hermes has to break eye contact with his uncle as his dissecting glare eats at him.

“Are you not still planning on finding more… palatable forms of employment in a more fitting location?” Hermes shifts, gazing down at the paperwork and spreadsheets and letters spread about Hades' desk. 

“Yeah, eventually, but-”

“Engendering a sense of kinship in those you intend to leave is rather cruel, wouldn’t you think?” Hades goes back to his papers, but he may as well still be glaring at his nephew for how rooted he feels. “These are not your father’s business partners, nor his sordid affairs. The people in this town have a greater emotional range than the back of a teaspoon as opposed to the types our family is generally in contact with. I can assure you they will not enjoy the sudden realization they were nothing more than a stepping stone in your journey for meager prominence.”

* * *

He’s a dour man, his uncle. 

Hermes takes the silence after his raving as an opportunity to leave, annoyed and holding back the comment that not everyone’s been ghosted by their dissatisfied wife as he escapes back to the outside where the sun is rapidly setting. What does he know, anyways? A lonely creature clinging to his business and his introversion as he bats away attempts from his family to visit. Apparently, he used to get invited to some things around town, but the citizens have long since given up trying. 

There’s some truth to his words, certainly, if Hermes were trying to use these people, but he isn’t, is he? He’s just got a job to tide him over. He can make friends in the meantime if he wishes, else his time here will be miserable. And when he eventually leaves, he can visit again. It’s not like he’s going abscond secretly into the night like Hades’ ex-wife. 

He can go to a get-together if he so chooses, even if it is only because Eurydice would gut him if he didn’t show up. He’s not exactly looking forward to milling around with the store owners of the town as they celebrate one last hurrah before all the tourists begin piling into the place, leaving everyone too busy for any real social calls. What is he even going to talk to them about? He's just going to be their mailman.

As Hermes looks ahead to the diner breaking free from his thoughts, there’s a dread at the sight of cars already parked out front. Some he recognizes, like Sisyphus’ beat up truck and, next to it, the even more rusted out thing that belongs to the gas station owner, while other vehicles he doesn’t and he pauses at the corner of the building. Is it going to look strange if he just walks in on his own, half an hour late? He can already imagine the curious glances and the judging stares, even if he at some level understands that it will mean nothing in the long run. 

He glances at Charon’s shop across the grey cracked street, squinting in the light from the sun setting behind the building that paints a cavalcade of pinks and oranges and purples through the white clouds, half-wondering if he can procrastinate his entrance. Much to his surprise, Charon has not left yet, his shop door opening as he steps through it, carrying a rather large box to stack he's made on his sidewalk. He sets the last one on the pile, casting a grim look across the street and noticing Hermes as he brushes some grit from his palms onto his dark trousers. Without missing a beat, Charon jerks his head for his spy to come on over and, grateful, Hermes does.

“What’s all this?” Hermes asks, immediately lifting the lid on the top most box as Charon takes out his keys and locks his shop up. Alcohol of all varieties arranged in neat little rows greet Hermes, shadowed by the building standing over them. “Oh! Providing the drinks for tonight. Dunno know why that didn’t occur to me, head’s in a right place today…” 

Charon grunts, stamping out his cigarette under his boot and picking up the top most box to hand off to Hermes. He takes it without a word, trying his best not to look like he’s struggling with the weight as his sore shoulder whimpers out a pang of pain, especially when Charon picks up the other two like they mean nothing to him. He follows Charon across the street, finding his focus wandering from keeping the box steady in his straining arms to greedily drink in the shifting of Charon’s shoulders beneath his black sweater. 

Alright, he’s allowed to look. He can appreciate the man from a distance. It’s fine, even if he does nearly trip on a large crack in the parking lot just before the curb as his attention is caught by the idle imaginings of the very picture before him sans sweater, just catching the box from tumbling out of his hands and smashing to the concrete as his toes hits the uneven surface. 

One of Charon’s eyebrows disappears under the brim of his hat when he pauses for Hermes to catch up, that little smile twitching to life in the corner of his lips. Hermes is certain as he babbles some excuse or another, ears ablaze, that were the man’s hands not currently preoccupied, he’d have something sufficiently snide to say. Instead, he leads them to the front door of the diner, shouldering it open as he shakes his head.

The blinds have been drawn over the massive windows, lending to more intimate lighting as all of the tables have been brought closer together, nearer the long counter. There’s already several people sitting and milling, a murmur of several conversations greeting them along with the warm air and the soft music playing from a cassette player and some speakers someone must’ve brought along just for the occasion. As suspected, the age range starts well over thirty, over forty even, making Hermes the youngest person around, and he couldn’t be more grateful for the wafting smell of food and Charon at his side. 

There are some applause as they come through the door, mostly from the old gas station owner with his leather-hide hands and toothless smile, and the three sisters who run the antique shop and the local knitting club. Sisyphus nods to them from his own little spot at his usual booth. Hermes is certain it's for the booze, but it makes him tense all the same.

“Charon, look at you!” Eurydice greets them with an excitement unparalleled, stopping Charon to put her hands on his forearms, dark eyes glittering despite the low light. She isn’t in her apron today, opting for a skirt and a polka dotted blouse, a matching ribbon tying her hair back, lovely as ever. “You didn’t have to bring so much!” 

He shrugs in answer, and she pats his arms in thanks before leading them to the counter. 

“Is Nyx coming?” She asks, casually trying to slip Charon some money, but he shakes his head and softly pushes the cash away after he sets his boxes down. Eurydice sighs disappointment, pocketing her proffered gratitude. “One of these days I’ll get her down here.” 

“Don’t count on it.” Charon signs, stepping aside for Hermes and Eurydice turns to him, smile back in place. 

“Look at you helping the big guy.” She says, lightly smacking Hermes on the back as he does the same with his box, arms complaining and shoulder aching as the blood rushes back into them. His leg is in all sorts too, know that he thinks about it, having hiked across town five times. Maybe he does need a car. Or at the very least a bike.

“Just passing by, thought I might lend a hand, you know, with my…” He swings his arm around to try and pop his shoulder it back into place. “Unbridled upper body strength.” 

Charon’s already lumbered away as Eurydice rolls her eyes good-naturedly, smiling despite it as she opens the boxes and begins inspecting the contents. Several people acknowledge Charon as he passes and he nods to them in turn. He settles at the other end of the counter, well enough away from most of the tables and people, but still technically within the bounds of the crowd, leaning against one of the stools, imposing and eye-catching even as he carves out his own little space.

Hermes starts to slink away toward him as Eurydice continues rummaging, intent on spending most of the evening with him to stave off the awkwardness of being surrounded by people he’s not too sure about. It’s not like he made any promises to do more than show up. Should be fine if he’s kind of orbiting one person during his short stint here-

A hand, surprisingly steely in its strength, grabs his wrist as he starts to move.

“Absolutely not.” Eurydice says, giving him a stern look, brow furrowed. There goes that plan.

“What?” He feigns ignorance, but doesn’t pull away. No one is looking at them, but if they did, Hermes can only imagine what they’d think as he’s being held hostage. “Just, uh-”

“Ah ah, not tonight, hon.” She pulls him a bit closer before letting go, picking up a bottle opener and taking the top off a few drinks. “You spend enough time glued to that man’s side, you can make some more friends tonight.” Hermes starts to bluster, stuttering a denial but as Eurydice’s expression grows more pointed, he clicks his tongue, leaving it. 

“Alright, _mother_ , wouldn’t want to get in trouble or anything.” She hands him four opened beers, pressing them into his hands and nodding to the table with the three sisters. 

“Why don’t you go ask the girls what they do on the weekends?” She says with a wink, sending him off. He’s very aware of their shenanigans in Elysium, as their belly dancing hobby was something Charon wrote told him recently but it sparks an idea in him as the ladies wave him over excitedly, twittering already as he hands off the drinks with as charming a grin as he can muster. 

Alright, fine. He can mingle. He can chat up a few middle-aged men and women as they drink the night away, the more influential members of the town loosening up and eager to talk to the young new guy. Who knows what he could learn, what gossip he could glean to bring back to Charon later, get an edge over him in their little note writing game. 

More people file in, the diner ending up with about twenty six or so as the air turns warm in the enclosed space, the murmuring undercurrent of a dozen or so conversations distracting as time begins to pass. Food is passed out, delicious yet a backdrop to the alcohol and the company. It’s easy to get lost in words, in stories, the drinks bringing out unfiltered phrases and unrestrained tangents said just a little too loud to be heard over the din. 

There’s a familiarity to these people, a kinship born in a small town of shared experiences. At some point, a few announcements are made, about the waitress’ soon-to-be born son, about the rough looking florist’s engagement to his second wife, about Hermes joining their ranks. Even with the guilt rummaging low in his chest, it’s hard not to bask in their enthusiasm over it, a small amount of applause that is as sarcastic as it is relieved. 

After a few more words, mostly toasts about the start of another tourist season and making it through another slow winter, people approach Hermes, smacking him on the back and shaking his hand. The egg-shaped barber jokingly offers him a free haircut if he can reroute his soon-to-be ex-wife’s mail back to his place, being immediately berated by his daughter and receiving a ‘I’m telling David’ which he laughs off nervously, wine-red cheeks turning even more so. Sisyphus also congratulates him, massive hand spanned the girth of Hermes’ shoulder where he squeezes it unpleasantly, and offering, if he ever needs it, to be on the lookout for a car for him at any upcoming auctions. 

“Could get you a better deal that way than the dealership in Elysium.” He says, quite proudly, “Would even fix it up for you on the cheap.” Hermes declines for the moment, politely, saying he’ll keep it in mind and quickly getting caught up chatting with the cafe owner with her strong jaw and wide chest. 

It’s strange, as he chats with these people in the low softly orange lighting of the diner, the music still low from the speakers and the atmosphere comfortable and intimate, how he already knows so much about them. The florist talks about his grandson, and Hermes has already met the child at the park while jogging when a basketball nearly tripped him. The antique sisters tell him about the dresser they recently acquired, but he’s already heard about it during an argument Nyx had over the phone with them a week ago. The barber’s daughter sighs about a guy she’s dating in Elysium but he’s already seen them walking on the beach months ago before they ever became an item. 

All these things he's gleaned, he knows, it makes it simpler to speak to them, personally, confidently. He's used to the forced, barren small talk of awards ceremonies and charity dinners with his father's associates, especially since the accident. He'd forgotten how little it can take to laugh with strangers who want nothing from him but his company and his willing ear, who's motivations are pure, who have no interest in gaining political prowess or a monetary dominance.

So what if he's not staying? So what if he makes nice with those he'll be delivering to? He's having fun and that's all he can ask.

Even still, enjoying himself as he can, there's something missing. As he's half watching the impromptu poker game the gas station man starts in the corner, roping in the florist, Sisyphus, the fishing store owner and one of the antique sisters, and half listening to the cafe woman, his attention starts to drift. To be fair, it’s been drifting all night, cautiously peeking over to the space Charon has claimed for himself every few minutes. He’d tried a few times to cross the room, but Eurydice tossed him away whenever he stepped over some unknowable threshold. 

Charon hasn’t so much as moved in the few hours they’ve been here, hardly eating, and tacitly avoiding anything alcoholic, face obscured in the low lighting under his hat and his sunglasses. Despite this, despite not seeking anyone out or even so much as appearing companionable, people approach him. They bear the same sort of amity as with everyone else, but there’s something different about these interactions. 

The latest, an old old woman Hermes can’t quite remember the placement of, he’s drank a fair bit at this point, totters over. She chats for a bit, careful to ask only simple questions as is the habit of most of the townspeople; not very many know sign language but all them are very used to Charon. While none of them hold the same amount of contempt or cruel interest as the tourists, they do keep a certain calculated distance, especially the older folks, respectful and careful. 

After a few moments of rather stilted back and forth, much like the other 13 or so people who have spoken to Charon tonight, the old woman hands him a piece of paper, which he takes and stows into his pocket with the dozen others. No one sticks around after that. No one spends any more time with him than necessary, save for Orpheus near the beginning and Eurydice as she flits around, checking on everyone. Charon is merely left alone again, back to his statuesque posture, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted specifically to observe, waiting for the next order to approach.

_I wonder if he’s lonely sometimes._

Could he be though? He’s surrounded by people right now, like Hermes, could ingratiate himself with them if he wanted. Those interactions he’s seen, while one-sided, have had no real effort at anything but the basest of necessary friendliness, strictly business under the preamble of catching up. Even Eurydice and her husband, who each know enough sign to be dangerous, are given the barest of responses, allowed to slip away from any form of conversation. Eurydice always touches his arm as she passes, in sympathy or camaraderie, Hermes’ isn’t sure.

The cafe lady is talking about something, going down a rabbit hole of a story about her cat, but Hermes is a thousand miles away, thinking his thoughts, drumming his fingers on the cool beer bottle in his hand as he sits before her at one of the tables. If the man is lonely right now, Hermes finds that personally annoying. Not his being lonesome, but that Eurydice is being a right nuisance, keeping Hermes away. Could be keeping Charon company right now. 

He’d be fine with that, wouldn’t he, Hermes talking his ear off right here and now, in public? They’re friends, yeah? Charon agreed with that description, been letting Hermes pal around with him the past two Sundays. Why would now be different? 

Hermes rattles the glass against the plastic table top, wondering. There's shouting coming from the poker game, but he lost the plot a while ago.

Would that make the crush more or less obvious if Hermes was blatantly ignoring literally everyone to chat Charon up...some more? Hermes takes a sip, head spinning, nodding along the woman’s story at appropriate intervals. The commotion at the card game reaches a high note, the toothless man throwing his cards down and whooping while the antique sister points in clear accusation. Charon surveys this from his corner, thoughts unknowable at this distance and with his barriers in place, but Hermes would like to think he finds it funny. 

Charon catches Hermes eye, confirming it as he nods to him and Hermes gives him a little wave, facing the still ranting cafe woman again awkwardly. Charon knows, doesn’t he, about Hermes'...thing? He has to, on some level. Eurydice’s got him figured out and she isn’t even the one he’s leering at. 

Or maybe he just doesn’t know, hasn’t figured it out yet. Hasn’t realized exactly why he keeps catching Hermes’ stare or why he’s been bombarded with the younger man’s presence. Maybe he’s in the same boat as Hermes, thinking he’s not interested, hell maybe they could’ve been fucking weeks ago-

“You know what I mean?” Hermes blinks, snapping his eyes back to the woman in front of him from where they had been glazed over, staring somewhere over her ear. What had she been saying? Something about a dog, he thinks. 

“Yeah, absolutely. Completely bonkers.” The woman smiles brightly, patting the hand on his bottle as she continues on with her story about the nearest vet being a rather shady man. Safe in the assumption his attention is solely on her, Hermes is immediately back to doing anything but hearing a word of it, taking a drink of his beer and using the opportunity to glance at Charon again. 

God, he looks good. Hermes doesn’t usually let himself linger on it too much, cutting off those particular observations at the pass, but maybe it's the company around them, maybe it’s the soft orange lighting from the kitchen beyond the counter, maybe it’s the alcohol, but Charon is like a magnet tonight, more than usual. He’s not wearing anything unusual, supremely comfortable in his usual gaudy attire with the rings and the hat and the sunglasses, and nearly every inch covered in his sweater and long trousers and rough boots, but Hermes would be in his space in a second, pressed to the front of him, placing one those massive hands on his hip and telling him to take Hermes back to his place so he can get his mouth on what he’s been hiding under all those clothes-

He frowns, looking down at the bottle in his hand, unable to remember how much he’s drank already, or even what he's been drinking. Eurydice and the rest have just kind of handing him things as the night went on, a little too distracted by everything to really think about it. It’s been a while since he last drank like this. Been avoiding it for kind of this exact reason...

Thankfully, the cafe owner gains her own distraction, the florist and his biker beard having come by to gruffly engage her in conversation over the state of her tulips outside of her shop. Whether their banter is turning sour or not, Hermes doesn’t care, grateful for the excuse to quietly slip away, head burning with always these thoughts. He just has so many of them, unable to stop them as he stands, especially now, _especially now._

Cause maybe, Charon just doesn’t realize he’s on the market. Maybe he’s like Hermes in that he's just not sure and doesn’t want to make a fuss. The man has been pretty fucking nice to him, extremely nice, too nice, maybe, and rather unbothered by Hermes flippant disregard for his personal space. Took him out for dinner and a movie, even…

But there’s excuses. But there’s _always_ excuses. Charon is just nice, a right gentlemen, a shrewd investor in anything that could benefit him, a good friend. But… but…

Maybe Hermes needs to make the first move, or at least _a_ move. Hermes has never really pursued a guy before, always finding the concept a little frightening in the ever present possibility of reading someone wrong and getting the shit beat out of him. It’s always been easier to let other guys stumble into him, figure out his intentions, because it’s not like he isn’t obvious in his wants. 

With girls, it’s simpler, less risk involved if he asks and she isn’t reciprocal. Not that this is a common occurrence; there’s not a lot of girls he’s tried hit up who’ve told him no. Not a lot of guys either come to think of it....

He could just drop a hint, couldn’t he? It’s not like anything would come of it. What's the harm in that? Just a quick little ‘just so you know, I’ve got a rather wide range of interests up to and including you bending me over your counter for however long you please, even, for example, right now in fact-’

Alright, maybe not that forward. Subtlety isn’t his strong point, but he’s certain he can come up with something as he pushes through the various people laughing and milling among the tables and chairs. He barely misses shoulder checking someone moving some of the furniture around, intent on Charon as the man takes another order from another person. The music's changed, something louder, but he isn't paying attention. He just has to know, just has to get that concrete no, just for his own sanity, just so he can stop thinking about it, just so he can get over it, move on-

Someone grabs his arm, and next thing he knows, he’s being brought into a spin by Eurydice, the middle of the diner having been cleared while he was brooding and the volume of the music having been jacked up to accommodate the couples and the brave individuals now taking to the makeshift dance floor. 

“You’re not going back on your promise, are you?” She chastises, slurring slightly as she moves them to the beat, a hand respectfully on his waist and worming her fingers into his. He doesn't fight it, succumbing to her lead with ease.

“Don’t remember promising anything.” He mutters back, wanting to be aggravated yet laughing all the same, giddy and light on his feet. 

"Oh, it was implied."

If it was easy to get swept away in the inviting conversation before he started drinking, it is even easier to be coerced into dancing. The freedom, the movement, even with people well above his age bracket and completely devoid of any form of intimacy, he'd forgotten he enjoyed dancing. There was no way to do so before, with his leg and the general lack of people around willing to do so. 

What had he been doing again? He loses track of time. Eurydice leaves him for the florist at some point, so he grabs her husband from where he’d been sitting on a stool at the counter, squawking indignantly as his wife erupts in laughter at the sight. Orpheus is a fine partner once he gets into it though their bop lasts only as long as the next song, and Hermes finds himself bounced between whoever will take him.

It's the sight of Charon's hat disappearing out the front door that reminds him what he was doing, interest in continuing his bop with the cafe owner dissipating in an instant. 

“Just gunna step outside for a moment.” He tells her as he pulls away, the bell above the door ringing out over the tunes jauntily playing and the laughter of the crowd. 

Stepping out into the crisp evening is like the first breath when surfacing from underwater; clean, cool, relieving in comparison to the stuffy air of the diner. He pauses for a moment, just drinking it in, grateful for the fresh night on his over-warm skin. It’s a cloudy sky above; been cloudy for days, but he can still see a few stars blinking back at him before the distinctive click of a flip lighter catches his attention. 

Charon’s standing at the far right corner of the diner, sunglasses in one hand as the other stows the lighter away, taking a drag from his cigarette with a sigh. As he sees Hermes out of his periphery, he freezes for a moment, lifting the sunglasses out of instinct before relaxing again and pocketing them as well. He takes off his hat for good measure, clearly enjoying the slight chill as much as Hermes. 

“Hey,” Hermes starts, whatever confidence he had exiting into the evening leaving him completely for an anxiety that has him squirming in his approach. He comes to a halt next to Charon, stuffing his hands in his pockets and grinning. “Surprised you stuck it out so long. Doesn’t seem much like your thing, all of this.” He gestures vaguely at the diner where a cheer breaks out. Either someone ate it on the dance floor or Orpheus has taken up his guitar. 

Charon shrugs, fishing a few orders written hastily on whatever paper the customer had at the time to flash at Hermes from his own pocket with one gold banded hand and the other holding his hat at his hip. Hermes nods, eyeing the aforementioned headwear. The muffled murmur from inside dies down and the distinctive timber of singing that Hermes has heard at times during his evening visits here takes its place. It was definitely Orpheus eliciting the cheering.

“All business as usual." Ah, he's getting ideas again, taking a step closer as Charon nods, staring off elsewhere and tapping his hat to his leg. Hermes has to wonder if would fit his head. He's not really paying attention, is he? "Couldn’t even dress down for it-"

It's rather simple, snatching the hat from Charon's loose grip. With a surprising grace, he dances out of reach of the hand swiping at him, hopping down into the street just beyond the man's wingspan. He nearly trips in his excitement on that crack in the street again, but recovers fine enough, trainers skidding on the loose sand scattered among the blacktop.

“What?” Hermes says when he turns back, feigning innocence and elated at the annoyed look Charon is giving him, the nearby streetlamp casting jagged shadows on his ruined cheek and gnarled lips. It's still jarring to see him bare-faced, not for his drooping eye, but just in that Hermes is allowed to behold him. “Think you look better without it, frankly.” 

Charon exhales in disbelief, looking away and relaxing as Hermes jams the hat on with a triumphant sound. It’s just a touch too big for him, easily falling past his brow with the weight of it. He has to crane his neck and keep the thing balanced on the back of his head just to see past the ridiculous brim as Charon shakes his head at him. 

"Happy?" The perturbed crease in Charon's forehead has given way as he surveys Hermes. He'd like to think Charon likes what he sees, but Hermes is well past tipsy at this point, and honestly he couldn't trust himself as far as he could throw himself, hence the hat on his head and the stupid shit-eating grin on his face.

“Extremely." He is, and quite proud. The hat is warm, smelling of Charon and the various aromas associated with him, most notably old tobacco, but it leaves the rest of him chilled in the brisk evening. Its only natural to approach Charon again, the idle thought of leaning against him becoming an attractive one, if only to fight off the goosebumps. 

The man reaches for him the moment Hermes gets back in range, but, even in his inebriated state, Hermes is quick, nabbing the hand in his own.

"Ah, not yet, my fair friend." He pulls the arm, posing as if he's going to try and haul Charon into a dance of their own. "Missin' all the fun inside. Gunna go back in, maybe shake a leg a bit?” Charon snorts, twirling him and sending him off to stumble into the empty street, giggling as he catches himself. 

“Not really my thing.” He signs when Hermes composes himself, pushing the brim of the hat back. The raucous noise inside is picking up steam, but Hermes isn't concerned with that.

“Makes sense.” Hermes says, frowning and nodding. He glances at the glass door to the diner, seeing the people moving within. From here, they are nothing more than shadows, shades backlit in the orange of the low light and nebulous in appearance. “Quite like dancing, I do." Whatever song Orpheus was singing ends, a round of applause erupting through the walls. "S’ fun. Doesn’t really matter the...the person neither. Man, woman, not a big deal. So long as they’re...nice…” He trails off, wondering if he’s still talking about dancing. He looks to Charon, lost and searching, as if he might know the answer. “Do you ever... dance with anyone?” 

Maybe he is too tipsy to see it, or maybe even without the sunglasses, Charon can be extremely impossible to read as he gazes at Hermes, considering. He makes a thoughtful noise, the chatter from inside dying down, leaving them in the quiet of the night and Hermes waits with bated breath as Charon leans back against the brick of the diner, rolling the fag in his mouth and looking him over with a emotion he can’t quite place.

“Depends on the person.” The music has come back, but it is lessened in its intensity, slower in its beat. A cricket chirps down the road, off tempo and intrusive.

“Oh.” Hermes glances down, pursing his lips and rubbing the back of his neck, flicking the brim of the hat up again to peer at Charon from under it before taking one step closer. Another step closer. Another, wondering if it's the alcohol or if he’s reading this right, hopeful as he is wracked by nerves. “What kind of pers-” 

To say he stumbles on the crack in the street is an understatement, nearly smacking his face on the curb if it weren’t for Charon grabbing him by the forearm and keeping him upright. Hermes giggles nervously when it hits him what just happened, straightening with Charon’s help and ears turning pink at the naked concern written clearly in his eyes. 

“I might uh, might’ve…’s been a bit since I drank anything.” He admits, leaning heavily onto Charon as his head spins unpleasantly, “Should probably…” Hermes gestures vaguely in the direction of his house and Charon huffs in a laugh.

* * *

Charon keeps him steady the walk home on the dark barren streets, warm at his side, silently listening as Hermes babbles next to him, tongue loose and limbs fuzzy. What he’s saying, he’s unsure, just anything to not continue on in the silence of the empty sidewalks and the still cool air. It’s whatever is coming to his head, about the townspeople, about Eurydice’s meddling, about the look on Orpheus’ face when Hermes pulled him to the dance floor, and he sends a few dogs barking in their yards when he gets a little too loud. 

The hat still sits heavy on his head and he can feel sweat beginning to dampen his hair as he directs them, leading them down the wrong street twice in his stupor, mind a little too hazy to recall exactly the road he now lives on. Charon is patient as ever, allowing Hermes to lean on him and take a few wrong turns, clearly amused by the whole affair. At one point, he just asks for the address, and luckily that sets them on the right path, the vaguely orange home with it’s white trim and the porch lights inexplicably on, as Hermes can’t find the light switch to turn them off, coming into view.

It’s very nice of him, doing all of this, walking Hermes home, letting him be an idiot. If he were a different guy, Hermes would be certain he’d try and pull something as Charon lets him go in front of his house, prepared to say goodbye, but Charon isn’t like that, is he? Probably not interested or an actual gentleman or maybe-

Or maybe.

“Oh, shit, here,” Hermes says, turning his back to the house as he takes a step onto the path that leads through the tiny lawn. He pulls the hat from his head, remembering it, mind racing. “Wouldn’t want you to forget this. Practically naked without it...” 

Charon makes to take it, but Hermes pulls it back with a cheeky look, motioning for him to lean down instead. One pale brow raises, and he takes the stub of a cigarette from his lips, curiosity evident in the yellow light streaming from the porch. Whatever higher being has blessed Charon with this playful demeanor today is one to be thanked as he yields to Hermes' demand, bending down.

It’s quick, quicker than he has to stop himself from the idea occurring to him and motion following as he places the hat upon those pale locks. As Charon begins to pull away, Hermes’ curls his fingers into the front of his sweater to stop his egress, swiftly pressing his lips to the man’s ruined cheek, nothing more than a peck, the lightest of kiss, barely there, but enough that he’ll remember the shape of his skin against and the heat radiating from it for weeks to come. Hermes pulls back just so, brushing the tip of his nose with Charon’s, just breathing for a moment, eyelids heavy as he peers coyly at the stunned man he’s caught.

“Could come inside, if you want.” He murmurs in a low manner and a large palm settles on his loose fist still gripping Charon’s sweater. “Maybe make some coffee, or something…”

He has to stop himself from just begging, biting his tongue and flush with the mere idea of Charon taking him to bed. God, he wants him, more, perhaps, than any before. Wants him to pull Hermes close, to tell him yes, anything as the gold banded fingers covering his own tighten, Charon’s throat working, thinking. Interests fade, flames die out, but even in the scant amount of time he’s known the man and wanted him, Charon has stood above that. Solemn. Firm.

Unobtainable.

His hand is uncurled gently, oh so gently as though Charon may break him if he weren’t, and with that same care, he pushes Hermes away, the frankly mystified stupor on the man’s face having slid back into well-worn apathy. He steps back, putting space between them, adjusting his hat and swathing his features in shadow, not quite looking at Hermes but more so past him to the porch light. Hermes breathes again, an ache resonating within him as he swallows.

“Get some sleep.” Charon signs, bowing his head in his goodbye. It is not said in a hard manner, not authoritative or snappish or intentionally cruel, but it might as well have been for how Herme’s heart drops all the same.

“Yeah!” He says back, trying to play it off, the vibrant red that over takes his face giving him away, “Alright, thanks, uh, see you-” Charon is already walking away, waving over his shoulder as he does so, leaving Hermes alone on the little path to his front door. 

“Later.” He scuffs the toe of his trainer against the little path to his front door as he observes Charon heading back down the road, well placed streetlamps highlighting the looming figure he makes as he passes under them. Hermes nods to himself in disappointment as Charon takes a turn, disappearing from his sight, the hurt of rejection clear even in the haze of his insobriety. 

What did he think would happen?

He stumbles at least once on the short trip to his house, fumbling with the keys at least a dozen times before he unlocks it. It’s not often he wishes he had been wrong, but, God, he would’ve liked to be just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> swing and a miss

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think so far or if you have any questions and thanks for reading!
> 
> https://jacqcrisis.tumblr.com/ <\- tumblr if you want to yell me there


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